Oubliette
by Spitfyah
Summary: France and England are sent undercover to track down a terrorist group that has the power to instigate every country in Europe to war. However, when their mission goes wrong, the manhunt is turned around on them, and England and France have to learn to work past old rivalries if they want to survive.
1. Chapter 1

Humidity stifled the dark summer nights of Europe, almost as much as the ever looming threat of war stifled the people. 1914 had brought about various defensive treaties, because no one trusted anyone anymore, not even their allies.

England knew as well as anyone that Europe was one breath away from catastrophe. That's why he stood outside, staring out at the English Channel, various members of government workers behind him. They all waited for a certain ship to come sailing across the Channel, a French ship with a very _important_ message.

It was deadly silent, but what was about to happen required such. Not even England himself, dressed in a black suit as was requested, understood fully what was happening. Glancing back at his prime minister with a curious look, England received only a dismissive glance.

However, his eyes widened as his sixth sense started picking up a certain nation's presence. He whirled around, catching sight of the small French boat sailing across the channel, and hissed, "What the hell is _he_ doing here?"

His boss approached him, hand clasping his shoulder. "I need you to keep an open mind, England. Desperate times call for desperate measures, I'm sure you're aware."

England said nothing, watching as a familiar figure jumped off the side of the boat, staring up at England, who stood on the cliff above. The boat was pulled ashore, what England assumed France's government stepping out, and the group made their way up the rocky steps.

Clenching his jaw, England took a wary step backwards, eyes locking with the blue of France. However, the other looked just as defensive and confused as England did, arms folded across his chest as he neared with his boss.

"You've said nothing to him?" England's boss asked.

"Of course not. Are _you_ sure you're alone?" France's boss glared suspiciously at the other government officials.

Rolling his eyes, the prime minister jerked his head back slightly. The others backed away, leaving only the countries and their bosses.

"We're on the brink of war, gentlemen," England's boss started, circling around them. "Tensions are high everywhere. The Austrian Empire is a mess, a volcano ready to erupt, and if we do nothing, the world will change as we know it." He eyed the two countries. "I know you've had your differences. But you two, if you can work together, could be an unstoppable force."

"That's ridiculous," France scoffed, and England quickly agreed.

"What do you expect us to do?"

"We need you two to go underground together," France's boss murmured, "-to the Austrian Empire. Franz Ferdinand, ruler of Austria, is preparing to travel to the border of Serbia."

England's boss pulled out a piece of paper, handing it over to France. England glanced over his shoulder, eyes roaming over the page. "The Black Hand?"

"A terrorist group in Serbia. If Franz sets a foot inside their border," France's boss explained grimly, "They'll kill him. And if that happens..."

"Austria will declare war," France finished softly, glancing at England, then up at their bosses. "So you're sending us to stop them."

"Not only that," England added pointedly, "But... a personification of Serbia will be created... if Austria declares war on it."

"That's correct. And if that happens, all of those other principalities- the ones under Austria's rule- they'll rebel, and Europe's balance will topple as they overthrow Austria." Their bosses glanced at each other, the prime minister nodding at France's boss to continue. "You'll be undercover-" France's boss held out two identification cards and a briefacse- "as Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy. Any questions?"

"When do we start?" England asked, trying to keep a straight face. _Duty before personal bias_ , he reminded himself.

"Now."

—

They left in the night, on a train headed to the Austrian Empire. The second their bosses were out of sight, a cold, bitter silence built up between the two, festering slowly. A century of being rivals wouldn't disappear, no matter how coercing their bosses seemed.

"Look," England started, trying to seem dignified. He'd be the mature one, not the stupid French bastard. "We might as well get along during this. I have a duty to my country, you have a duty to your country."

Shadows jumped around France's face as his eyes caught England's. "Brave words coming from you, Mr. Kirkland."

Well, screw maturity. Scowling, England suppressed the urge to strangle him, breathing out heavily. "I hate you."

"That's more like it," France encouraged, smirking.

Gesturing to the briefcase, England stood, begrudgingly sitting beside France and making sure they didn't touch in the slightest. "Whatever. Let's go over the material-"

France popped the briefcase open, a note taped to the top from their bosses. Advanced technology- hand guns, strange spy-tech that England had never seen before, grenades- were neatly assorted at the bottom. Standing, England drew the curtains warily as France read aloud the mission briefing.

"They've rented us a hotel room in Bosnia."

"Sarajevo?"

Francis nodded, absently pushing blonde hair out of his face. "While the Ruler of Austria is on his way, we're supposed to spy on the Black Hand."

"Mm," Arthur mumbled, picking up a pistol in the briefcase, examining it closely, and sliding it inside his coat. "Fun. I don't suppose they gave us any clue _where_ they are?"

"Not a one, darling."

"Piss off."

"Remind me, England- who was it that kicked your ass in the Hundr-"

With a fierce hiss, England lunged at him, France cried out in mock terror before being pummled onto his back, and the two commenced into a fistfight (or, cat fight), sprawling out on the bench, and though no one could see them, everyone on the train could hear them, French expletives and all.

—

Eventually, the two arrived in Sarajevo, the crisp air and smell of grass a welcome change from the stuffy atmosphere of the train. Birds chirped cheerily, so cheerily that you wouldn't suspect a war loomed in the distance.

"So, now what?" England hissed, the two standing on the loading deck alone. Impatient footsteps against the wood beneath sounded as Francis pulled out the note again, huffing something derogatory.

"They're sending a car to pick us up. _Merde,_ can't you just be patient for-"

"Remind me, France, who was it that kicked _your_ ass in the Seven Years Wa-"

France threw his fist into England's gut, snarling, "I will _kill_ you if-"

As England's slender fingers wrapped around France's pretty throat, a horn honked, and the two, still holding each other's collars, glanced over to the road. A car was indeed waiting, roofless, seven or so other agents sitting inside with shaded glasses, watching them silently. Coughing, England released France and picked up the suitcase, ambling over to the car, throwing a nasty glare at France before settling down. France climbed in after him, kicking his shin, and the car took off.

It was unusually silent, and England's mental alarm started going off as he finally focused on something other than pummeling France into the ground. The agents in black watched them, watched them too closely, and England discreetly nudged France in the ribs. France made to snap at him, but promptly sobered, suddenly aware of the eerie atmosphere.

Coughing, England smoothed his suit, and suddenly pulled out a sleek pistol. The car broke out into a frenzy, as England fired, the agents jumped out of his way into the backseat, and the driver swerved, throwing everyone off balance.

France bowled into England as the car jerked around, earning a fierce, "You no good piece of-" and promptly, France was tossed into the back seat with all of the presumable agents of the Black Hand. They glared at him, and France, giving a nasty look at England, elbowed one in the nose, sending his head back with a sick crack.

"1-0, me," France chimed, rolling up his sleeves cockily.

"It's not a game, you ugly pig," England scowled, firing his pistol centimetres from France's ear. It struck an agent in the back, rendering him unconcious. "But, if it was," England gripped Francis's hair and shoved him against another agent, slamming him into the headrest, "it would be 2-1, me."

"You," Francis grunted, smacking one agent in the face, "are-" he paused, grabbing England's wrist and hurling him into the backseat- "the most infuriating,-" England kicked one member's feet from under him and slammed his head against the cool metal of the trunk- "pigheaded, idiotic-"

England's pistol suddenly was pointed at his face, and France's blue eyes widened, glaring at his rival. With ease, England flipped it around, handing it to France to use, and France fired at an agent behind England, narrowly avoiding his head with a smirk.

"Blasted show off," England hissed, tackling France to the seat and smacking a member of the Black Hand behind him with his foot. France would have called him out on the rather scandalous position, England's nose inches from his, when England pulled up, their special suitcase in his hands. Raising his eyebrows flirtatiously, England smoothly stood and backhanded one of the agents with the suitcase, maintaing eye contact with France.

"Stupid flirt," France threw back, when suddenly, one of the agents threw a grenade into the backseat, rolling towards them.

"Shit!" England screeched, grabbing France's wrist. They jumped to the back of the car just as it exploded, the force sending them flying into the road. The car accelerated off, leaving them far behind in the dust.

France coughed, ears ringing, pushing himself up. He glanced at England, breeze ruffling his hair every which way, and his rival scowled. "Wonderful! If it wasn't for you, we could have been taken to their hide out, bastard!"

"Me?!" France cried out. "You're the one who pulled out the gun-"

"Stupid, ugly, worthless-" England continued muttering curses under his breath, opening the suitcase. "At least they didn't get this."

"I planted a device on the car."

"Ugh, I can't believe-" England's attention whirled to France, wide-eyed. "What?!"

France shrugged. "I found it in the suitcase when we were on the train. Put it in my pocket just in case. I was originally planning on planting it on you-"

"Oh, shut it."

"The device to track the car is in there," he pointed to the suitcase.

England stared at him for a few moments, and then snapped, "You couldn't have told me earlier?!"

"You're welcome," France said smugly, tying his hair back as England set up the tracking device, still muttering under his breath.

"Just in case you didn't know, I hate you."

"Oh, believe me, I hate you the most."

* * *

 _Alrighty, my main focus is finally here! This is a FrUK spy AU set just before World War I. If you like angst and the feeling of your heart getting torn out, this story is perfect for you. *sadistic grin*_


	2. Chapter 2

The car was easy to track- luckily, it hadn't travelled far. As the sun started to set the sky orange and pink, England and France approached the warehouse the black car was parked outside of.

"Don't you think it's strange?"

"What?" England asked, turning towards him.

France glanced at the car. "That they took off without us. That none of them were carrying guns. As if they wanted us to follow them."

England hesitated, eyebrows furrowing. "I know. But what other choice do we have? We can't back down now, and-"

Huffing, France looked up at the sky pointedly. "Merde, I didn't need an in-depth explanation."

"Do you want to single-handedly sabotage our mission? Because I am seconds away from strangling y-"

"Shhh!"

"Don't you shush me-"

France's hand darted out, covering England's mouth. _Seriously_ , his eyes conveyed, gesturing to the warehouse. Faint voices could be heard. England ripped France's hand off his mouth, glaring at him before beckoning him to follow.

They quietly walked into the dark, their ability to squabble while maintaining silence impeccable, scaling the stairs two at a time. They approached a hallway, pitch black- England gestured to France, mouthing, _There are voices_.

France whispered, "I can hear, bast-"

England sent him a nasty glare, gritting his teeth, and the two quietly advanced towards the end of the hall. There was a balcony with rails, lights illuminating the ceiling from below. France, with a pointed look at England, crouched low to the ground and advanced towards the balcony.

Below carried on a meeting, voices now distinct. England crawled next to France, refusing to look at him as they focused on the men below. The agents of the Black Hand, smoking cigarettes, gathered around a map on the center of the table.

"The Archduke will be coming down this street," one muttered, gesturing to the map. He slid his finger down. "We can intercept his caravan on the first turn."

"The first turn? Isn't that too obvious?" One snorted.

"It's expected that since it's too obvious, we'll stay away from there. No one will be guarding the first turn, trust me."

"How many teams are deployed?"

"One."

Inhaling sharply, England glanced to France. _Let's get out of here_ , his expression conveyed. And for the first time France found himself agreeing with his rival. They quickly raced out of the hall, down the stairs, and out of the warehouse, shoes clattering loudly on gravel as they took off down the street.

"Now what?" France hissed, trying to keep up with England's pace.

"The hotel," England breathed out. "You still have the-"

France unclipped the backpack from around his chest and pulled out the briefcase. "Directions?" He smirked. England rolled his eyes and slowed down once they were out of sight. Gasping for breath, France whined, "Did we have to run that fast, you ass?"

"It's not my fault you're an old fart."

"Not only are you ugly, but you look stupid when you run."

"At least I can run-"

"At least I'm not ugly."

England rolled his eyes, snatching the directions from France. "God, I hate you."

—

Night fell as the two exhausted, dirty personifications walked wearily into their hotel room and instantly started squabbling over the single bed in the tiny room.

"Although I never thought I'd say this," France started, nose pointed haughtily in the air, "I'm older, and therefore, you can sleep on the floor."

"I am the one who got us here. I sleep on the bed."

Someone in the room next to them hit the wall, which clearly meant shut up: a disgruntled France and a fuming England clambered into the single bed, as far away from each other as possible. And quickly, a heated argument started up.

"You're hogging-" England hissed, yanking on the blanket harshly, "-all the covers, bastard." France gripped the sheets and tugged back, ripping them completely from England with a contemptuous humph. Before England could pull them back, France rolled over onto his side, trapping the mahogany colored blankets under him-

And England shoved him off the bed. With an effeminate cry, France hit the carpet and glared up at England, who rolled over with the blankets.

"I hate you," France growled, climbing back up, very deliberately jostling the bed.

—

As sunlight filtered in through the window, France groaned, lazily rolling around. England walked out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, and opened the curtains completely, blinding France.

"Rise and shine, princess. We've got scouting to do."

France's lips curled up irritably, ready to snap groggily back, but his eyes caught the way the light illuminated Arthur's figure. Hands on hips, eyebrows raised in an unimpressed manner, he looked like an image from one of France's favorite magazines-

Scoffing, France looked away, stretched, and fell back in bed. England stomped back into the bathroom, demanding France be ready by the time he walked out. But France, curling up into himself, wasn't listening, eyes wide, wondering why on earth his heartbeat had accelerated.

 _I'm just attracted instinctively to pretty things_ , France reasoned. _Not that_ _Arth- no,_ _England is pretty, of course, non. He's vile, and cruel, but merde, that sex appeal-_

France jumped out of bed and slammed open the door to the bathroom, completely ignoring England's cries of protest. He drenched his face under the cold water of the faucet, screaming internally in horror.

—

The streets of Sarajevo were bustling, people everywhere- France and England, dressed as regular civilians, easily blended in. Hands in pockets, England halted, scanning the street with careful, calculating eyes. "Here."

"Hm?"

"This was where they planned to intercept the Archduke."

Skeptically, France drawled out, "And how do you know that, smartass?"

"I have a photographic memory, shit-beard. I could see where they pointed on the map. And it's here."

France couldn't fight with that, although trusting England's apparently "amazing" memory practically made him want to barf. He kept a pleasant face, however, and replied, "Fine. And you plan to intercept them how?"

"They'll have one team, probably on the ground. I'll be your eyes. You can intercept them on the street."

"You take the street," France countered, blue eyes boring into green challengingly. "My turf is height. I function better where I can see everything unfolding."

England shrugged. "Whatever." They continued to walk, idly passing through markets as England continued, "And I assume your choice of weapon is something old-fashioned and slow, like yourself."

The breeze brushed France's hair out of his face as he smirked. "You'd be surprised."

"Yippee, I can't wait," England huffed dryly, harsh accent practically dripping off his tongue. He stopped, observing the fruit in crates stacked neatly at the market. "We take them down quietly and quickly, understand?"

"No bickering?" France gasped, a hand over his heart.

"Ah, that's asking too much of you, I know."

"Is it asking too much of you to share the blanket in our hideous and tundra-like climate of a room?"

England rolled his eyes, and the two settled into an uncomfortable silence, walking uneasily back to their hotel.

—

France observed from the window of their hotel room the many people gathering in the street, waiting to cheer on the Archduke's caravan eagerly. Uneasily, he shifted, strapping on his gear firmly. The sniper strapped to his back felt too heavy- the pistols attached to his belt made him swallow anxiously. The weight of their mission had finally dawned on him, and France had a bad premonition about such.

"Nervous, princess?" England sneered, approaching the window, watching the crowds below.

England's ability to read body language precisely never ceased to amaze (and infuriate) France. "I'm nervous that you won't die," he shot back, crossing his arms. "It would be most satisfying to watch them slit your throat."

"Sadist." England kept an emotionless expression, voice low. "As much as I want to see you bleed out, I'd rather complete this mission successfully and never have to see you again."

"Agreed."

"Don't get in my way."

"Then don't get in mine." France glanced at him. "Is your mic on?"

England pressed a finger to the chip inside his ear, fiddling with it. "It is now." The cheering suddenly escalated, louder- England turned swiftly, calling back, "You're my eyes. Keep me updated."

Unsure why pride swelled in his chest, France scoffed, "Of course. I'll be sure to lead you down the wrong path, darling." _Be careful_ , his mind added. France wanted to slap himself for thinking such.

As England snorted, muttering curses and slamming the door, France sharply inhaled, tying his hair back. Although he knew he should be taking the elevator to the roof of the building, nervous energy kept him frozen to the spot, still gazing blankly out the window.

And suddenly, he realized he wasn't worried about the mission itself- he was worried about England.

"That's stupid," France muttered, shaking his head as if clearing thoughts away.

"Excuse me?"

He'd forgotten about the mic in England's ear. Merde, he cursed inwardly and snapped, "Nothing. Are you on the street?"

"I'm in the crowds like I'm supposed to be, unlike you, lazy ass."

France rolled his eyes, not bothering to ask how England knew. He promptly walked out of their room and down the hall, entering the elevator. "I'm going, I'm going. What do you see?"

England, peering down the street in the front lines of the crowd, saw the black outline of the Archduke's car nearing. "He's coming. Are you on the roof?"

"Patience," France snapped, exiting out of the elevator and onto the roof. Gusts of wind hit his face, not a cloud above, as he neared the edge and crouched down. "I see you. Short little wimp making his way out of the crowd."

"I hate you."

"I assure you, the feeling is mutual."

"It's hot out," England's voice sounded, calculating. "The Archduke probably-"

"Has his roof down completely," France finished, eyes drifting over the entire scene, looking for certain men. "And it's safe to say no one will be wearing black-"

"Except for the Black Hand."

"Exactly."

"You know," France murmured, "They don't like the Archduke for good reasons, England. Austria hasn't exactly been a saint to their neighbours, especially Bosnia... And Serbia."

"I care more about preventing a _world war_ than who doesn't like who for good reasons," England replied coldly, flatly.

"Then-" France's eyes caught a sleek figure on top of a building, right above what would be the Archduke's first turn- "focus your attention to the building on your East."

England saw the figure and immediately took off towards the building, weaving in and out of people, pushing open the door harshly-

 _Bam!_ England stumbled backwards, a fist burying itself in his gut, and he grunted in surprise. A man pointed a gun at his chest, but before he could firmly clutch the trigger, England swung his foot into his arm, kicking his weapon away. It clattered to the floor as England launched himself at the other, engaged in hand to hand combat.

"What the hell is going on?" France asked, unable to see England but still hearing the commotion over the mic.

"Ambush," came England's panting voice, grunting as another fist sent him to the ground. "Watch-" he paused, foot flying into the other agent's legs and sending him tumbling to the cold concrete floors- "yourself, they might be in your-" he finally had time to grab his pistol, quickly firing at the man's chest- "area."

"There's no one here. Did you get hit?"

"I'm fine," England panted, standing quickly and running up the stairwell. "Man still on the roof?"

"Yeah. The caravan's approaching the first turn," France breathed out urgently, watching as the Archduke's car neared. "Can you hurry your ass up?!"

"What's he doing, Francis?"

"W-what?"

"What is he doing?!" England demanded, almost at the top floor.

"He's..." France pulled out his binoculars, adjusting the frame quickly. "He's crouched at the edge with a pistol."

"A pistol? What the hell? How is he going to shoot someone below at that range?"

France lowered the binoculars, mind racing in confusion. "Unless-"

"He's a decoy," England answered, breathlessly, pausing on the rusting, old stairs. "France, he must be." His voice sounded calm, something France begrudgingly admired. "Should I-"

"Take him out," France hissed quickly. England didn't reply, racing up the steps and slamming open the door to the roof, facing the man who stood at the other edge. France saw his figure, a small blur, but still recognizable. He heard scuffling over the mic, and picked up the binoculars once again to watch.

Swift punches were exchanged from both sides- France watched with intrigue as England sent his foot into the other's ankle, making him stumble backwards. England sprinted towards him, grabbed his arm, and jumped. He whirled around the man's back agilely and gripped the man's head in between his thighs, using gravity to his advantage and flipping them both. The man crashed with a harsh thud against the concrete. England landed neatly on his feet, straightening up and stalking towards the other agent.

" _Merde,_ " France cursed in awe, lowering the binoculars.

"Alright," England hissed, gripping the agent's collar taut. "Start talking."

The agent growled at him, teeth showing. "You think we didn't know you were in the warehouse?" The color drained from England's face as he continued, "You think we'd actually just let you follow our car-"

England threw him into the brick wall, rendering him unconscious. "Thank God," France huffed snidely, watching as the Archduke's car prepared to make the first turn. "I was getting tired of his mouth."

"France, it was a set-up. The whole thing."

"What?"

England's voice sounded, urgent. "They wanted us to follow them. They knew we were in the warehouse." It hit them both at the same time: the Black Hand knew exactly where the two were. "France, you need to get out of there _now_. They're going to kill us!"

"As much as your concern warms my heart," France said with a sly smirk, "I can take care of myself. Speaking of, where _did_ you learn how to fight like that?"

"Oh, shut it." England glared out at the crowd, shielding his eyes from the sun. "None of your business..." he trailed off, catching sight of two distinct men weaving in and out of cheering people, discreetly following the caravan. "France, do you see what I'm seeing?"

Lifting his binoculars, France focused on the crowd, spotting the two men. He started to speak when the door to the roof slammed open, startling him. He whirled around, facing three agents, and dived behind a convenient metal structure, bullets barely missing him.

"Hello? Where did my eyes go?" England pointedly asked.

"I'm a bit tied up right now," France hissed, shooting back at the agents and again ducking for cover.

"Then get _untied_ and back to your job, punk."

France grunted, pulling out small circular devices from his belt, and tossed them back at the men behind him. The electric devices were drawn to the metal in their guns and promptly disabled their weapons. As the agents recoiled in shock momentarily, France sprinted towards them, sliding to the ground and kicking the two nearest agents' feet out from under them. They toppled to the hard concrete and France jumped up on his feet, kicking the third agent squarely in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards.

"Arthur," he panted out, "I hear them coming up the stairwell."

"Then stay there and I'll come get you, princess."

France rolled his eyes, aware of the loud shouting coming from the staircase below. "No need. I'm coming to you."

"What?"

Swiftly, France prepared his rope, tying it securely around the metal structure. "Don't worry. I've done this. Once."

" _Once?!_ The bloody hell are you doing?"

Saying the Lord's Prayer in his head, France tied the rope to his waist, and just as the agents broke through the door onto the roof, France jumped off the side of the building.

The windows to three floors down shattered to pieces as France swung through, landing with a loud grunt on the carpet. Someone down the hall- a maid- screamed and ran off. France sat up, breathing out a sigh of relief and picking glass from his arms, when England's furious voice sounded. "What the _hell_ was that?!"

Voices even more furious than England's sounded down the hall- groaning, France stood and swiftly sprinted towards a second staircase. Praying to God there were no surprises waiting for him, France shoved the door open, taking the steps three at a time. Luckily, the lobby was cleared of people, and France pushed open the glass doors to the celebration outside, sun beating down on his back.

"I'm out," he panted. "Where are-"

"I see you. Two agents on the ground are headed your way."

"Oh, you want to take them down together?" France smirked, and apparently the smirk was evident in his voice, because England growled.

"No pistols, France. Not on the street. Don't blow your cover."

"I know." Smoothly, France stepped out in front of the agents, stopping them in their tracks. " _Bonjour,_ gentlemen."

Apparently, the men couldn't blow their cover on the street either. Rigidly, one growled, "Stand aside, Bonnefoy."

"You see, though, the sun shines just perfectly here, and my hotel room is so cold." France shrugged nonchalantly.

"Do you want a public fist fight on your records? Do you think the Austrian Empire would appreciate you being here when tensions are so high?"

"Mm," France dismally hummed, trying not to smirk as he saw a familiar person approaching behind them. "I don't really care."

Before they could question his insolence, England stuck something into both, making them crumple to the ground, unconscious. "Electrocution is _so_ convenient," he flatly said, facing France. There was a bruise under his eye, France noted.

"You're making it so easy for us to cover our tracks," someone muttered, and both France and England stiffened, whirling around. The owner of the voice stood behind them, smoking, and gestured to the caravan.

England started to charge, but France pulled him back, eyes widening as he caught sight of just who was in that car with the Archduke.

" _Mon Dieu,_ his wife is in the car," he breathed out. His words caught England's attention, and promptly, they took off after the car, staying distanced from the crowds, trying to spot any member of the Black Hand-

"There's a man by the bridge," England spoke urgently. "He's the shooter, France."

 _You're making it so easy for us to cover our tracks,_ that man had said. The Black Hand's plan started to click in France's brain. They weren't trying to kill them- oh, no. That'd be too easy. They were going to frame them for the Archduke's murder.

France halted abruptly, eyes wide. England uncertainly stopped beside him. "What are you-"

"We can't go near that car, England. They're setting us up, but not in the way we thought-"

"Bullshit," England hissed, attempting to run to the car, but France gripped his arm. Glaring at him, England growled warningly.

"Can't you trust me for one _damn_ second? They're trying to frame- England! _Stop_!" France yelled as England broke free of his grasp. Eyes widening, France watched as England raced towards the man and the car turned into the bridge.

Two gunshots rang out in quick succession. The cheers of people on the streets turned to screams- the Archduke's head rolled back instantly, and his wife slumped down into her seat. Blood stained the back of the car.

England stood behind the car, shell shocked, and watched as the man disappeared into the confusion. Becoming aware of just where he was standing, England glanced around- people were pointing at him fearfully, some screaming. Eyes widening in realisation, he backed up a few paces as a man shouted, "He just murdered the Archduke! He shot him!"

A gloved hand grabbed his arm and pulled him back- England, frightened, looked back to see France, dragging him out of the street quickly. Without questions or arguement, the two sprinted away from the scene, weaving in and out of buildings, France's hand tight on England's wrist as they took shelter in a narrow alley.

Blaring alarms echoed all throughout the city. Shrieks and cries of the people rang in France's ears, and furiously, he slammed England into the alley wall. England protested, but France's eyes boring into his own quieted him.

"Why the _hell_ do you never listen?" France hissed. "Now they're coming for us! Not just the Black Hand, but the _Austrian police_ _,_ Arthur!"

"What was I supposed to do, god-dammit?! I was trying to stop-"

" _England,"_ France urgently whispered. "We just started a _war._ "

Their harsh breaths mingled, faces close together. England glared at France, but as talented an actor England was, France could see the fear in his green eyes.

However, England's cold, emotionless facade came back. "Then get the hell out of here. I don't need you."

France considered this- it wasn't him who'd been accused. Arthur had been seen- Arthur and perhaps the young man from the Black Hand. France could walk away from this unscathed, could go back home and forget about this stupid mission.

"No." He shook his head. He tried to summon other words, an explanation, but nothing would come out. Instead, he grabbed England's wrist, and the two took off.

He had no idea _why_ he was going to stay with England, but he would never argue with his gut.


	3. Chapter 3

They fled deep into the forest, dodging rocks and low hanging branches until the sound of furious shouts and alarms drifted away. Panting, France stopped to gulp in air. He hadn't realized he was still gripping Arthur's wrist: glaring at him, Arthur turned his back pointedly to the other.

"We're fugitives of the law," France snapped. "Don't be immature."

Green eyes challengingly bored into his. " _I_ am a fugitive of the law. Me. There is no _we._ Kindly piss off." France opened his mouth to retort, but England continued coldly, "If you're going to whine, leave. I don't need help."

 _So prideful._ "I'll never understand you," France sighed. "What are you planning to do, Mr. High and Mighty?"

"Travel west. But, we've got..." England emptied his bag, useless contents hitting the ground heavily. "A whole bunch of nothing."

"Guns and ammunition are something. And we have a canister."

"Which is useless if we don't have water." France rolled his eyes as England continued pointedly, "And without a map, only God knows how to get out of here."

Francis chuckled (loving the way England scowled at him). "Oh, my poor, deprived England. Do not fear. My mind works like a compass."

"You know true north?" England gritted out. France winked. "Fine. You tell me where to go and _I_ will lead the way."

"Ah, no. I'm older. I'll lead."

Rolling up on his feet to meet France's height, England smirked. "I'm stronger."

Sadly, there was no denying that for France, but like hell he'd agree outwardly. "You're the one who got us into this mess."

"Then I'll get us out of it." England turned, beckoning for France to follow. For fun, France let him go a ways, folding his arms across his chest as he watched, and then called out.

"You're going the wrong way, darling."

England's glare was priceless.

* * *

 _"Hello?" A young, squeaky voice calls. He wanders through this forest, unaware he is followed by another youth. The bushes shake and the boy, lost and confused, feels instincts pulling at him._

 _You are safe, the voices in his head whisper. He will not hurt you._

 _The brambles part and out steps a taller boy, clothes in tatters, hair matted. His big blue eyes look friendly enough._

 _"I'm lost," the boy whispers._

 _"Who are you?"_

 _The boy has just come into existence, but he knows immediately his name. "Albion."_

 _"Albion?" The other scrunches up his nose, and Albion giggles at such a funny face. Smiling at the pleasant sound, the boy who had been following him continues, "Well. I am Gaulia. My name's much better than yours."_

 _Albion giggles again, a soft sound, innocent as it echoes around the forest. "Can I stay with you? I... I just woke up. Here. And I've been walking... f-for days."_

 _"Ah! You're like_ me!" _Gaulia twirls him around, excited and beaming. "I barely age, and I've outlived all the villagers. They drive me away with stones, by the way, so don't go down there." He squeals, dancing around Albion. "Now I won't be alone!"_

 _Faeries float around them, lighting the night gold-_

With a sharp intake of air, England jolted awake. France was slumped against a tree nearby, taking the first watch. He didn't notice England approach him, sliding down beside him.

"It's still my watch," France murmured.

"I had a dream."

"Oh?"

"About..." England frowned. "I can't remember. It's right there, but..."

France glanced at him, studied his jawline, and looked away. "Go back to sleep, England."

"I can't. Let me take watch."

Pridefully, France snorted, "Well, I can't sleep, either."

"Then I guess we'll _both_ take watch. _Jesus_ ," England huffed, folding his arms across his chest. France groaned inwardly, cursing his competitive genetics, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep and just let England keep the damn watch. He ached for the comfort of his house, wondered fretfully how his cat was faring, chided himself for being so stupid as to help idiotic England, and slowly his eyelids started to droop.

 _Just a little rest,_ France told himself contentedly. _Nothing more._

He was out in seconds. England smirked victoriously.

* * *

"France, get up."

The urgency in England's voice shocked France out of his daze. He sat up quickly, watching England's figure. "What-"

"They're close," England whispered, eyes alert, scanning the forest. "Coming up from the southwest."

Both quieted, listening to the faint voices only a personification could have picked up. France stood, dusting off his clothing, and motioned for England to follow. "I have an idea."

"Oh, sweet Lord save us."

Ignoring the jibe, France continued, "If we can create a phony trail, we'll throw them off."

"You know how to do that?" England raised his eyebrows skeptically.

"Of course! We're like... _ah,_ what is the word in English..." France waved his hand around, eyes drifting upward. "Spies! Yes, spies. This is simple, like spy work."

An amused snort from England sounded. "We're everything _but_ spies, tosser." But he followed France through the thick underbrush anyway, halting as France did.

"You stay here." France disappeared into the forest, starting a false trail. England shifted nervously, eyes scanning the tree-line above. The excellent mask he'd built melted as he stood there alone, emotions clear as day across his face. This forest reminded him so much of...

Memories. Old memories. They came back to him in the form of a dream. England bit his lip uncertainly, the sound of his heart seeming to echo off non-existent walls. They'd been so young. Different names, different times. And another side of him- _Arthur_ \- ached suddenly to return to that innocent, wonderful place.

"Finished-"

Taken off-guard, Arthur whirled around, eyes wide. France recoiled, surprised, studying his face. But before he could say anything, England's mask was back, eyes distant and emotionless as usual. "Then let's go."

Sure enough, France's tactic worked. They gained distance, finding a lake and quickly filling up their canister, hiking deeper and deeper, until France gripped England's arm. "What?"

"You walk too fast," France panted, too prideful to actually ask for a moment. England studied him, drawing an inquisitive look from France. "What...?"

England huffed quietly, digging through his backpack. He pulled out the canister and handed it to France. France stared at him, confused. "Finish it, you twat," he demanded, shaking the canister back and forth.

"But the rest was supposed to be yours-"

England silenced him with a simple look, one that France had never seen before. Gentle. He gave in, taking the canister and drinking, and England turned away.

 _He's never shown me such an expression as that before,_ France mused. And for some reason, the gentle look on England's face had imprinted in his mind.

They continued walking (at thankfully a slower pace) through the night, crickets chirping, fireflies illuminating the darkness. It reminded England of his dream, although the glow of faeries compared to fireflies was different, more bright.

With an amused chuckle, France broke the silence. "I found this when I was making that trail." He handed him a crumpled piece of paper. Brow furrowing, England opened it up to see the ugly word "wanted" above his face.

It was borderline amusing, England thought, holding the paper up beside his face and turning to France. "Uncanny resemblance."

"I think it's the eyebrows," France teased, trying to hide his smile.

England rolled his eyes and looked away, but France could see the way his lips quirked upward. Suddenly, he halted, eyes searching the ground, frowning. France turned, calling out, "What's wrong?"

"Do you... ever dream of the past?"

France smirked. "Of course. Who doesn't?"

England crossed his arms pointedly and raised his head. His eyes searched France's, and for some reason, France felt his privacy being violated. England _had_ always been able to dissect you with one simple look. "I've... been having these weird thoughts lately."

France tilted his head. Uncertainly, England continued, "Things that I haven't thought of in years... I'm dreaming about them suddenly."

"Are you concerned about these dreams?"

Frowning, England hesitated. _Should I be concerned that I remember a time when we were happy in a forest just like this?_ "I... suppose not."

Pushing the strange conversation into the back of their minds, the two countries continued to traverse the forest. They stopped, France pointing upward at a huge oak tree. "Can you climb up there and scout for a village?"

"Can you?" England smirked. If France could get out of doing work, he would, and teasing him about it was probably the most enjoyable thing England could think of.

"That's none of your business, _stupide."_

" _Vous avez le cervau d'un sandwich au fromage,_ " England called, feeling the bark under his hands as he started to ascend up the trunk.

It took France a moment to process that England was actually speaking (ridiculously well-spoken) French. It took him an extra moment to translate his own damn language. Brow furrowing, France questioned, "Did... did you just..." His eyes widened in livid realisation. "You just- _you just_ called me a cheese sandwich!" He could sense England's smirk and spluttered, yelling, " _Ferme la bouche_!"

" _Brûle en enfer,_ " England called back. Even though it pissed France off that England knew his language so well (and used it only ever to insult him), he smiled. After scanning the horizon, England called, "I see a train."

"A train?" France furrowed his brow. "What direction is it heading?"

"East."

 _If there's a train,_ France reasoned, _It'll surely bring us to a village._ England climbed down, landing gracefully beside France. "We should follow it."

"It's going _east,_ and we're headed _west_. Do you have a death wish?" England frowned.

"There's a better chance of running into a town. Do _you_ want to starve? We need food, we need water- look at your clothes!" France pointed to his shirt, streaked with dust and mud. "We need clean clothes, we need to rest in _peace_ for one night-"

"Alright!" England snapped, holding his hand up. He hesitated and then rolled his eyes, making France grin.

"If being targets of a manhunt will coerce you into listening to me, I say let's do this more often."

* * *

Roughly less than a day from the train Arthur had spotted, the pair had set up camp for the night beneath a rather dangerous-looking crag. Sharing the watch had become their routine: whomever fell asleep first lost. Usually, that person was France.

Tonight, however, France had a different idea. Sitting beside Arthur, he started, "Tell me about your memory."

Arthur's eyes met his- France could almost see his surprise. However, he obstinately looked away. "No."

"Then I guess this memory _must_ be steamy, if you can't share it," France goaded, smirking, although his next words left a bitter feel in his mouth. "Were you writhing in the throes of-"

England flushed bright red and smacked his arm. "Shut your filthy mouth!" He cried out, looking mortified and furious and on the verge of strangling France all in one.

 _All I have to do is mention sex and his walls come down,_ France thought, an amused smile forming over his lips. "So? What was it about?" England remained silent, so France continued, "Was it Spain pleading for m-"

"It was about you and I, actually," England spoke softly. France's words caught in his throat, and England, flushing crimson once again, spluttered, "A-As children, you doof."

"You were a wild child," France reminisced, folding his hands behind his head. "Whatever made you think of this?"

"Probably my over-exposure to you."

They settled into silence, and France remember a young boy called Albion who had kept him company after so many years of loneliness.

"We were best friends," France murmured, looking over at the younger. England stared back, looking slightly upset. They both remembered what- _who-_ had driven them apart, an Empire with false promises and sickly deceptive smiles. France shuddered involuntarily. The things Rome had done to him, the sexual abuse, the beatings, the enslavement- those memories would never fade.

"What's wrong?"

"I suppose Ancient Roma drove us apart, no?" France smiled. He fancied that he had walls, too, just like England. _Don't get caught up in the past. Rome is gone. England doesn't need to know what happened to me back then, anyway._ "But I suppose he made us both stronger."

England studied him, green eyes intently searching. Uncertainly, France looked down, then back up, trying to silently tell England to let it go.

"Goodnight, France."


	4. Chapter 4

Haunted by nightmares of the past, France awoke in a cold sweat. He laid completely still out of habit, trying to control his ragged breathing. Blue eyes sought out the sleeping form of his companion- a tired smirk crossed France's face. England was asleep.

France sat up, pushing his hair back. However, his eyes were drawn once again to England's prone figure. Strange thoughts leapt through his mind, inching closer to the younger. _I could kill him now. But I never would. Why?_

His fingers reached out, tracing a path down England's jawline, more affectionately than he intended. Quickly he withdrew them as if he'd touched poison.

 _That's exactly what England is. A poison._

France covered his eyes, leaning back against rock, trying to calm his heartbeat. _No,_ he told himself firmly. _Stop mistaking simple companionship... for something else._

Frustrated, France pushed himself up, deciding that a walk would cool him off. He trudged through the thick brush, thoughts hanging over him like a dark cloud, remnants of a conversation last night and nightmares hounding him.

He was lonely. That was simple enough to deduce- he'd been alone for so long, been alienated by other countries for what felt to him a century. Naturally, he'd latch on to England's companionship, as he'd do with anyone's companionship- or so France convinced himself.

 _The way he gazed at me, kind and gentle. Giving me his portion of water. His eyes always searching deeper, as if he cares about the things I can't say-_

A shout shocked France out of his thoughts- before he could react, foreign hands were pushing on his chest, sending him flying. With a pained grunt France slammed against the bark of a tree, breath escaping him in a moment of panic. Shocked blue eyes focused on the figure approaching him.

Brown hair, brown eyes- he was a personification, France was sure, and probably a new one. He hissed, "I mean no harm-"

"I know you're helping him," the personification interrupted, lips curled into a sneer. "This is my country you're in."

Cursing under his breath, France realised that his boss's nightmare had come true- the personification of Serbia stood before him. That could only mean that the Austrian Empire had declared war on Serbia over the Archduke's assassination.

"I have to return to my territory. _Now._ "

Serbia scoffed, reaching for his pistol, when A dagger buried itself into his hand. Screaming, Serbia reached for the knife in shock- just as England slid to a halt in front of France, one arm out as if protecting him. "Don't you dare touch him," he snarled.

France was sure his heart leapt out of his chest, even as England gripped his wrist and the two took off running.

The harsh sound of panting echoed in France's ears as they raced through the dense forest, branches whipping their faces, until France felt his throat burn. He stumbled to a halt, England's fingers still tight on his wrist, England's breath close to his face, England's body inches from his own-

"Who the hell takes walks in the wee hours of morning!?" England snarled. France's throat felt as if it were on fire, so he simply watched England rant, trying not to wince. "I can't believe your idiocy sometimes. Bloody fool. Ignorant tosser. Going to get yourself killed..."

His voice had become softer, green eyes carefully watching blue. France stared back, a jumble of shock and relief and want showing on his face. He'd never be able to mask himself, his emotions, like England did. The younger's fingers clamped around his shoulder, finger pads against his neck feather-light. France couldn't withhold an unpleasant shudder as the past flashed behind his eyes, when he'd been smaller, Rome leering above him, iron grip on his shoulder-

England pulled back and turned around coldly. "We know that was Serbia. That means Austria has declared war. Which means-"

"We have to get back," France breathed, regaining his composure. "My country will declare war."

England turned, and for a moment, France saw a glimmer of emotion- regret. "I know."

They circled around, making their trail hard to trace, and France eventually grinned. "I have a fabulous idea."

"Lord, take me now," England muttered under his breath.

"As you wish," France flirted, lips quirking as England spluttered curses. "The Triple Entente. Remember? We allied with Russia."

England hummed. "And?"

"Once we get to a town, we could call him for help."

"Do you think he'd come? Not only is he preoccupied with Austria, he himself is only..." England trailed off, eyes darkening. "Only a teenager."

France had heard those words before, perhaps a century ago. Trying not to pick at old wounds that France suspected were still bleeding, he murmured cautiously, "You of all people should know not to underestimate a young country."

England didn't reply. Assuming they would discuss his idea later, France forged ahead of England slightly, sniffing the air.

"What the hell are you doing?" England huffed, borderline amused at the hound France had become. He followed the other until they broke out of the heavy wood and into a clearing.

A lake surrounded by trees met England's surprised eyes. France smiled triumphantly and turned to England. "Never underestimate the French, darling."

Rolling his eyes, England fished for their canister, plopping down beside France at the water's edge. As he filled the bottle, France pushed his hair back behind his ears, wishing desperately for a hair band in this heat-

Burning, sharp pain in his shoulder made France cry out, stumbling forwards. He yanked out a knife embedded deep into his shoulder, feeling black start to crowd the corners of his eyes. England was in front of him in seconds, whipping out his pistol and firing repeatedly into the forest.

Trying to focus on the knife to stay awake, France realised it was one of England's knives- the same one he'd hurled at Serbia's hand.

Furious shouts sounded within the treeline- Serbian police (and the nation himself) were hot on their trail. England glanced behind his shoulder at France, yelling, "We're sitting ducks out here!"

As both sides continued to fire, France hissed into England's ear, "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

Gripping his arm, France led England, sprinting for the cover of the trees on the opposite side of the small lake. Once they broke through, they took off through the forest at a faster pace, France allowing England to lead the way, calling out directions.

And France suddenly realised how perfect England's national animal mirrored this ridiculously strong Empire.

 _I have the lion of Europe on my side._

"The train!" England gasped out, pointing ahead. The large train cars started to pick up speed, loud rattling and heavy smoke clogging ears and eyes. The two had no time to lose, and coughing, they raced alongside the train, England yelling, "There's an open car!"

France's eyes caught his, and England actually gave a coy grin. "After you, princess." He grabbed France's wrist and forcefully attached his fingers to the metal handle protruding beside the open car.

Glaring caustically at his companion, France gracefully swung himself up. He debated whether or not leaving England behind, but his conscious won, and despite his shoulder burning, he extended a hand for England.

Their arms clasped, eyes connecting, hair flying every which way. England finally swung himself up, landing firmly onto the train car beside France. They watched the Serbian police break through the woods, all confused as the train rushed by, having lost their trail.

Finally, they were safe- for the time being. Although they were well on their way out of Serbia, the entire Austrian Empire lay before them. England's face was printed all over wanted posters, and France suspected his would soon be beside England's.

He groaned, wounded shoulder pulsing, staining his vest and long sleeved shirt beneath it dark red. England turned towards him, green eyes catching sight of the mangled shirt. "Sit," he ordered, voice firm and palm even firmer on his chest. France smacked his hand away but obeyed, sitting on the wood beneath. The younger knelt down in front of him and started unzipping his vest, sliding it off his shoulders. His breath puffed close to France's jaw as he muttered, "Who wears a long sleeved turtleneck in the summer?"

His green eyes caught France's, glowing playfully. It caught France's breath, watching as England's nimble fingers worked his shirt off, careful not to brush the fabric against his ugly wound.

Uncertainly, France watched England gaze at his chest, at the noticeable scar that ran across his abdomen jaggedly. "Revolution?" England asked, voice quiet.

France shook his head, and although everything in his gut told him not to trust another nation, he murmured, "Rome."

After a small hesitation came England's question. "What exactly did... Did he do to you?"

France stiffened, looking away. "It's none of your buisness." England studied him, eyes searching, dissecting everything France's face gave away. But he didn't press. Instead, he searched through their backpack, pulling out the canister and a roll of cloth to bandage France's shoulder. Before he started, he turned back to France, fingers grabbing his hair.

France readied to strike him because the hair was _off-limits, bastard,_ but hesitated. England's fingers were gentle, pulling his hair back behind his head and tying it with a band, brushing against the back of his ears to gather every stray hair. Now that his hair was out of the way, England turned, ripping part of the cloth off, dabbing it in the water.

"This may sting," he murmured, lifting it to France's shoulder, but all France could feel was the warm hand on his other shoulder, the sides of their legs pressed ever so slightly against each other, England's warm breath on his neck-

He shivered slightly, hoping that it looked like a shudder of pain. England didn't seem to think anything different, eyes drifting up to meet his, then drifting back down to the wound. He cleaned it well- France wondered how his fingers could hold so much strength yet be so gentle.

"How strong is your sense of smell?" England asked, lips quirking as he started to bandage France's shoulder.

"It's always been like that," France said. "Each and every individual object has its own scent."

"That's weird."

"Is not. You wish you could have my nose."

"It kinda reminds me of a cat," England hummed, tying off the bandage with ease. "There. Done."

"Thank you," France murmured, their faces close. England swayed a bit, eyes half-lidded and peering momentarily at his lips, before sitting up straight and backing away from him.

"I did it for myself. I didn't want to have you whining or crying." He clenched his jaw and swung his legs over the open side of the train car, watching the trees fly by.

France sighed and pulled his shirt back on, using his vest as a pillow for his head as he laid down. "Hey, since I've answered two of your stupidly personal questions, it's my turn. Where did you learn how to fight the way you do?"

England angled his head back, green eyes glinting. "I fight just like everyone else-"

"No, you don't." France stared at him, and England looked away silently. France supposed he wasn't going to get an answer when England suddenly spoke up.

"1876. A reconnaissance mission gone wrong. I was sent to study and kill an assassin, but he found me, and I couldn't blow my cover. He recruited me, branded me, and taught me..."

"How to fight?"

"How to kill," England corrected quietly. "And after a year with him, I finally completed my mission. I killed him the way he taught me."

France stared at him, unsure whether to be terrified or amazed. Unnerved by the silence, England continued, "But I've honed his method into something less destructive. I... I'm not a murderer."

"I know," was all France could say. They sat in a long silence, watching the scenery outside of the moving train. "You said he branded you?"

England's eyes were carefully neutral. "Do you want to see?"

"Well, you've seen my scars. Time to even up the playing field."

For some reason, France thought he saw hurt flash across England's face, as if he thought France was treating this like a game- but his default expression was back just as quickly as it had gone. He pulled his shirt up and over his head, and France's throat went dry.

It wasn't an actual burn mark- it was a tattoo, spanning across his back in between his shoulder blades. France's breath caught, and he felt the urge to draw the intricate pattern before him _and the sexy man before him,_ his mind added.

Alarm bells started ringing in France's mind. He was _not_ developing affection for England. He needed to stop. They hated each other- more importantly, England hated him.

That didn't stop France from tracing his fingers down England's back, mesmerised by such strong shoulders, such a lean figure, and what France wouldn't give to trail his fingers around his waist, to feel England's muscles-

England angled his head slightly, glancing back at him with half-lidded eyes. France's warm breath puffed against his neck as he murmured, "It's incredible."

England slid his shirt back on quickly, making sure France didn't see an inch of his chest or stomach. "I think your idea, about getting help from Russia... I think it's a good idea."

France had no idea why his heart backflipped, but ignoring it, he grinned pridefully, "My ideas are always spectacular!"

Rolling his eyes, England crawled closer to France, resting beside him against the back wall. France tried not to laugh, because even though England was a master of controlling his face, his body betrayed him, and right now it was ridiculously obvious that he was cold, the wind blowing into the train causing goosebumps to trail over his exposed arms.

France tentatively wound his arm around Arthur's shoulders, ready for the slap that would follow- instead, England's head rested on his shoulder, eyes closed.

 _Oh, but he must be tired, always staying up to guard me at night._ France bit his lip to contain his smile. He remembered the way England's hand shot out in front of him, making sure France was safe behind him.

England's hair was close to his nose, close enough that he could catch his overpowering scent- cinnamon, basil, hints of salt spray from the ocean. It was the most defined aroma out of all France could smell- it always had been, and it still was. And yet, he could never correctly define England's scent- there was always something else to his aura, something elusive.

He didn't plan on telling the younger. Gazing down at him as he slept, France supposed that once Russia came to help them, everything would go back to normal- England would hate France, and France would continue to hate England, no matter what happened over the course of one week. It left France with a bitter taste. He didn't want this seclusion- just them- to end.

 _We only ever get along when we're alone. Why do you have to be so hard to decipher, Arthur?_

Perhaps it wasn't that hard to figure the British Empire out. Coarse, bitter, cynical on the outside- a defense mechanism for the kind and caring and desperation for love on the inside.

And France fancied that somewhere along those lines he was similar, too.


	5. Chapter 5

The train came screeching to a halt, waking the two countries. Yawning, France stood and stretched, peering out the open train door- people were unloading at the station.

"We're far enough away to sneak out unnoticed," France murmured as Arthur looked over his shoulder.

"And then what?"

"Find some clothes. And food. And ammunition."

"You have money?"

"Who said we needed money?" France smirked. England frowned, but couldn't disagree. The two leapt off the side of the train, landing heavily on the gravel beneath. Sprinting for cover, England and France ducked behind a series of large bushes, France pointing beyond the station. "If we can clear the station we'll be good to go."

"What if people know who we are?" England hissed. "The Austrian police would be here in no time-"

"This rural town?" France scoffed. "Don't be foolish." England wanted to retort, but France continued, "Look. There's a clothesline through the trees, see it?"

Not only a clothesline, but a small village lay beyond the sparse trees. The two carefully dashed through the undergrowth, breaking through brambles and bushes into the back porch of a cabin. Quickly and haphazardly they yanked shirts down from the clothesline, retreating back into the small wooded area for cover.

Groaning, France rolled his injured shoulder. He didn't want to ask England for help, but he obviously needed it, and thank God England wasn't an idiot. He swiftly undid France's vest and slipped off his shirt, mindful of the wound. "It bled through the bandages," he muttered to himself, glancing up at France.

They were close. Too close. France flushed and looked away from England's inquisitive stare. "It's fine. Just put on the shirt and let's go."

"No, it'll bleed through the shirt," England argued, pulling out the rest of the tightly wound bandages from his backpack. "I have enough to re-bandage you. Sit."

Unable to argue with piercing green eyes, France knelt in front of England, feeling irate that _he_ was bowing before this _(sexy)_ arrogant Empire: yet England quickly matched his position, taking off his old, soiled bandage and replacing it.

"Why are you acting like you care?" France asked, voice carefully guarded. Yes, he had walls, just like England.

England glanced up at him, tying off the bandage. Caustically, he snapped, "Because you're helpless and weak and a coward, princess, and I'm just trying to _even up the playing field._ " With that he threw France's shirt in his face and stormed off through the brambles, leaving a wide-eyed and confused France behind.

 _Was he really offended by that? Mon dieu, he's such a baby,_ France mused, pride wounded as he struggled with his new shirt. He joined England, new black flannel a strikingly nice colour on the Empire.

"See that?" England pointed at a cabin, voice tense. A lady exited the house, and France picked up the warm scent of bread. "That's where you're going to get our food."

"What?! Me?" France gaped. "But-"

"You owe me. I've had to bandage you twice, and you stink."

"So do _you, morceau de merde_!"

England raised his chin pointedly, handing over his backpack to the other. "Are you going or not? I can go without food for a couple weeks, that's fine-"

" _Alright,_ alright!" France hissed. "I'm going." Muttering French curses, he snuck out from the cover of the trees and towards the back of the cabin. Once the coast was clear, he sprinted around to the front, opening the door swiftly. The scent of delicious food made France's mouth water, and quickly, he grabbed the loaf of bread from the counter, rummaging through the cabinets and grabbing what canned food he could.

An ear-piercing shriek made France yelp and drop the can in his hand: whirling around, he spotted the lady who'd left standing in the doorway. With rushed apologies, he raced by her and out into the village, all of the townspeople staring at him wide-eyed.

England was dying laughing when he returned, wiping away wetness from his eyes, amused by a very ruffled, very irritated France. "Your scream! Her _face_! Oh my god, that was rich."

France scowled at him as they quickly headed off towards the train. "I hate you."

"Well, no thanks to _you,_ we can't communicate with Russia, now that you're a bread thief," England replied, still smirking. "But I suppose it was worth it."

* * *

The train set off once again, this time headed in the direction France and England needed to go. They sat in the same open train car, France unzipping their backpack and taking out the food he'd managed to take.

"Canned peaches, canned peaches again, canned peas..." Arthur mumbled, sorting through the cans. Irritably, he snapped, "Did you get anything _other_ than disgusting canned food?"

"What? There's a box of ammunition, ungrateful child."

"God-dammit, I hate peaches."

"You don't like peaches? _I_ do," France jibed, innuendo clear as day.

"Shut up, you closet pervert."

"There's nothing wrong with a lush, dripping-"

"Stop!"

"Fat, juicy-"

"Oh my god."

"Delicious peach," France finished, smirking at England's flushed face. He decided to save more revenge for later, content with England's mortified look.

They rummaged through the food, relatively silent save for the sound of France's obnoxious peach eating (he'd never forget the look on England's face, he swore). England started re-loading their two pistols, and to pass time (and/or gloat his victory) France asked, "What's your favorite food?"

England glared at him suspiciously. "Not peaches."

Laughing (genuinely, to his own horror), France continued, "You've made that clear."

"Isn't that a question to ask a six year old?"

"Oh, come on. I'm just trying to lighten the mood."

Stubbornly, England tilted up his chin. "What's _your_ favorite food? Peaches?"

Trying to contain his laughter (and failing miserably), France said, "Kumquat."

England huffed softly, leaning back on his palms. "Really?" He smiled genuinely, a look France had never seen before. "I can see that. Exotic. Just like you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

England shrugged, but France wouldn't be deterred from his original question. "Anyway, I've told you mine. Your turn."

He hesitated, looking away for a moment. France didn't think he was going to get an answer.

"Sushi."

France bit his thumb, grinning. "I was expecting stuffy British food. Maybe you do have good taste!"

England opened his mouth to retort when a loud thump came from above. Both England and France started, heads swiftly tilting up: the metal ceiling above was dented.

" _Shit!_ " England screeched, grabbing France's wrist and leading him to the open edge of the train car. Whoever was above what had been their makeshift sleeping space fired down into it, sparks leaping everywhere and bullets wildly flying inside. England leapt out the car and grabbed onto the metal ladder just outside of the train, shouting, "Get out your pistol and follow me!"

England reached the top of the train, black boots landing heavily on the metal below. Easily he fired at the man who had been shooting below at them, making sure France was following. The wind swept their hair every which way, unbalancing their bodies- glancing back at France, England yelled, "Didn't I tell you they'd find us?"

France scowled, but England's words were playful, his eyes almost looking kind. "Stay with me, yeah?"

"Whatever," France muttered, heart racing as he strapped the bag tightly around his chest, pointing his pistol at the many agents advancing towards them.

Both fired, trying to take out as many as possible before hand to hand combat was necessary. However, these agents were skilled and fast, and in no time they closed in on the two fugitive countries.

"Hey," England grunted, kicking a man off the slippery edge of the train: France swiftly elbowed an agent behind him, glancing at England pointedly as he continued, "Don't you think-" _punch-_ "That we should try-" _a kick in the gut-_ "working together?"

Before France could reply, England gripped his wrist and yanked him around, up in the air. His outspread leg took out several agents around them, and as he landed neatly in front of England, eyes wide, he exclaimed, "What the hell?!"

Cheekily, England grinned, pulling France closer to him and _why on earth is England flirting with me in this type of situation?!_ France thought, heart beating fast for all the wrong reasons. "We make a good team, princess," England breathed out, grabbing him around the waist and spinning him around in some twisted sort of dance.

France was completely enraptured. He stared at England, unable to focus on the people currently trying to slash their throats- that was England's job, twirling him around and _killing people while they danced._ It was beautifully disgusting, England's quirked up lips, France's glowing blue eyes, the blood staining the train, people falling all around them.

Their morbid daydream was suddenly blown to pieces as both of their eyes widened, jolting.

There was another personification on the train. England knocked out the last agent near them, tensing up as the train made a swift turn, throwing both off balance. France instinctively latched onto England shirt, both staring at the female nearing, eyes dark, high heeled boots clacking on the metal, long brown hair blowing out all around her.

"Hungary," France spat, releasing his hold on England, whose lips curled into a snarl.

"France and England," she acknowledged, cold and rigid. She tilted her chin up, eyes glinting. "I shouldn't have put it past you two to instigate a _world war._ Disgusting servile puppy dogs," she contemptuously snorted. "You'd do anything for your bosses, even destroy Austria's _leader_."

"You've got it all wrong," England hissed. "We didn't kill him. We were sent to _save_ him!"

" _He saw you_!" She screamed out, clenching her fists in rage. "Austria!"

No, Hungary wasn't the only personification on board this train. Long red coat flying out from him in the breeze, Austria in all his elegance walked near and stood beside his counterpart. The Austro-Hungarian Empire stood before the British Empire and the Republic of France: to be honest, Francis felt a tad bit inferior. He was nothing like the (currently crumbling) duo, but he was _absolutely nothing_ compared to England.

"Trying to tear my Empire apart?" Austria sneered. "You do a fine job."

"For what must be the _millionth_ time, it wasn't us," England growled. "Are you so dense? Did you know not of the Black Hand?"

"Franz Ferdinand should have been allowed to travel wherever he wanted in _his_ Empire!" Austria yelled, voice shrill.

"You antagonised Serbia, bastard," France snarled back. "And then you think your leader can just sail uninvited into their land?"

Hungary whipped out her sword, pointing it towards France. "Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong. This is big kid stuff, dearest France."

France's lips curled back, but England stepped in front of him, holding out his pistol. "Another threat against him and I bury a bullet in between your eyes," he warned, suddenly turning into this looming, dark figure- the true British Empire. France shivered involuntarily behind him- even Austria drew back, shocked by the sudden change of appearance.

"Look, Britain. This will go down two ways. One, you come with us. Two, you remain stubborn, and we fight. You may be stronger than all of us combined-" Hungary's eyes drifted over to France- "But _he_ is your one and only weakness." She saw England's dark glare falter. "Don't deny it. I know how much he truly means to you, so come with us."

"You forget that France once tore all of us to pieces," England snapped, coldly staring down at the duo. "He can take care of himself."

Despite all the emotions raging in him, France felt his chest swell- England would probably never say those words again, and he had no intentions of forgetting. He lifted his chin, not about to be verbally destroyed by this young, crumbling dual Empire. "And _he_ could snap both of your necks. I'd advise not messing with us."

Hungary never was a patient woman, nor one to talk. With a shrill cry, she leapt towards England, her sword cutting through the air. Pushing France back, England backflipped out of the way, firing at her. Easily she blocked his bullets with her sword, reflecting off the tough metal with sharp twangs.

Austria was one for hand to hand combat, throwing his fist at France's face. France staggered backwards, head spinning, as Austria kicked his ankles out from under him. He landed heavily on the metal, breath knocked out of him.

France wouldn't go down that easy. Hissing, he swung his leg into Austria's, sending him toppling down as well. Both scrambling to their feet, France pulled out his pistol, but as he aimed, Austria, with a loud hiss, jumped up and kicked the weapon out of his hands.

He intended to slam his elbow into France's jaw, but yelped when England gripped his arm and slung him into Hungary, sending them both staggering, struggling to balance. France momentarily marvelled at his companion's strength, observed those gorgeous muscles, and then focused on the crazy people trying to kill him. Both sides glared at each other, panting for breath.

"Just surrender and make this easy for all of us," Austria hissed.

"Like hell," France spat back.

Fighting quickly broke out again. England caught France's arm, conveniently swinging him away from Austria's fist and into Hungary. Grunting, Hungary stumbled backwards, the train swerving sharply and throwing everyone off balance.

England leapt back as Austria charged, dodging his fist and throwing his own punch right into Austria's jaw. Austria's head jerked back with a sick crack: England took advantage, racing towards him. He jumped up, took hold of Austria's shoulder, and swung behind him, locking his thighs around Austria's neck.

Austria choked, hitting England's knees in an attempt to breath. Finally, England swung back around, landing neatly on his feet- Austria fell to the metal, blacked out.

England turned to Hungary, who smacked him in the face- he stumbled back, nose starting to bleed. Regaining his breath, he watched in surprise as France slammed his foot into her gut, sending her stumbling back into England.

She whirled around, sword slashing across England's chest, just a nick, but enough to make him stagger backwards. France made to run past her, but a swift kick to his side made him stumble, falling to the edge-

Eyes widening, England shoved Hungary out of his way using all of the strength that he usually contained, leaping towards the edge. France yelped, sliding over the edge, just as England caught his arm, both gasping out for breath.

Their eyes met, relieved and frightened and electric- England grunted, pulling France back up, falling onto his knees beside his companion.

"You alright?" He breathed, one eye on the stirring Hungary and the other watching France, who gasped for breath, their fingers still linked together tightly. His eyes met England's, smiling warmly, a look that made England's chest constrict painfully. Suddenly, he became very, very pissed, very, very fast- who would dare hurt the only brightness in his life? Turning, he faced Hungary who attempted to stand.

England pulled out his pistol and fired twice, once at her leg and the next in her shoulder- shrieking out, Hungary fell to the metal, crumpled at his knees.

In a cold, heartless trance, England lifted his pistol to her head, ready to obliterate her-

But France's fingers fell over his, gentle. England's eyes snapped up to his companion's, confused- France shook his head, curling his fingers against England's palm. "Come on," he urged. "We need to get lost."

They leapt off the train at the next safe and open area, leaving behind the dual Empire, carried off on top of the train.

—

" _Dieu merde,"_ France cursed softly, nudging his shoulder against England's. "You turn into Death incarnate when you're angry, you know that?"

England chuckled, glancing over at him. "Sorry. Instinct."

Their eyes met- both quickly looked away, hearts swelling for similar reasons. France swallowed, walking closer to England, trying to hold in a shiver as their shoulders brushed.

"You look like shit," France mumbled.

England let out a bright laugh, tilting his head back- France smiled, studying his exact expression. "So do you!"

They settled down beside a large oak, resting their backs against the rough bark. France let out a content sigh as he unzipped their bag and both started to eat. Night quickly fell, but despite the rough day, neither were ready to sleep.

"So," France started. "Where the hell are we?"

England laughed again, eyes content as he gazed at France. "No clue. But..." He smiled, their shoulders resting comfortably against one another. "I don't really care."

They settled into the first comfortable silence they'd ever shared, simply enjoying the other's presence. France fell deep into thought.

 _I should tell him about Rome. I trust him. God knows why. But I trust him._

"When Rome invaded my land," he began softly, Arthur's green eyes watching him, sensing the shift of mood- "I didn't submit to him at first. This was maybe a decade or so after we met. Maybe more."

"Francis," he murmured. "You don't have to... Don't feel like you need to-"

"No." He smiled. "I want to tell you." England returned the soft smile, waiting for him to continue.

"He beat me at first. It wasn't too bad, I could handle it." His smile faded, faded into a vulnerable, upset expression. "And then he started to touch me."

"He raped you."

"Eventually several times," France continued bitterly. He caught himself and tried to brighten up. "Of course, I don't remember much. I was young."

He was lying, and England knew it, knew those memories were vivid. He sighed out heavily, hand touching France's. "When Denmark invaded- close to when Rome was falling- he locked me up for a week with him." He smiled weakly at France. "He was my first. And I... I never forgot the pain, so I know you haven't, either."

Throat choked with emotion, France squeezed his hand, resting heavily against him. After a long silence save for the crickets, he whispered, "You didn't have to do that."

"You didn't, either."


	6. Chapter 6

After traveling steadily west for two days, France and England, deciding they were far enough from trouble, slowed considerably. France complained the entire time that their clothes stank- eventually, England, tired of hearing it (and slightly self conscious- _slightly_ ), allowed France to take the lead and find a lake.

With France's strange nose, it only took an hour. The lake, surrounded by trees, was a beautiful sight to behold. Before England could speak France started stripping off his clothes, quickly hobbling to the edge of the water.

"Woah, woah, _woah_ ," England spluttered, flushing and _trying valiantly_ not to turn his gaze downwards. "C-can't you strip in privacy?"

France sent him a seductive smirk, kicking off his boots and sliding down his pants. Instead of replying, he slung his shirt at England's face, conveniently covering his eyes.

England winced and tugged the sweaty shirt away from his face just in time to watch France jump into the water with a loud splash. He resurfaced, shaking his hair out of his face, and shouted, "Come on!"

Sighing and rolling his eyes, England turned his back to France with every intention of just leaving him there. Then he considered France complaining about his scent for God knows how long. And for some reason (he blamed it on his pride), he started undoing the buttons on his shirt. He heard France whistle as he threw the black garment to the ground, tattooed back exposed.

 _You're doing this because you like him!_

England glared at France _and_ the faeries giggling around him, stomping away for cover behind a cluster of large rocks. He proceeded to strip, finally noticing the grime covering his skin. Grimacing, he flexed his fingers, nails almost black- now there was no way around having to jump in the water.

Racing to the top of the rocks, Arthur jumped off the side with a shout, curling his legs up to his chest. It felt wonderful, sinking under the water, opening his eyes and gazing up at the shimmering, blurry surface. He finally pushed himself up, gasping for breath once he reached the surface. Shaking his head, his blonde hair whipped around his face messily, eyes carefully watching Francis as he swam closer.

France hummed, lips quirking upwards (definitely _not_ checking England out). "You smell much better."

"Oh, shut up," England huffed, splashing him. France wiped his eyes, chuckling as England started swimming away.

"Chicken."

Whirling around, England's eyebrows rose, lips quirking up. "Excuse me?"

"B _aaaaaawk!_ Ba-" France crowed, quickly cut off as England flipped onto his back and started kicking up water at him. He spluttered and tried to escape from the onslaught.

England started to laugh, eyes fixed on France as he charged and easily tackled the other. Both fell underwater, scuffling and kicking and hitting...

But it was gentle, and that was strange. They were nations, and nations didn't _play_ with other nations, didn't laugh, were never gentle.

 _We were always different,_ England mused, still wrestling with France underwater, watching the bubbles all around them as he tried to contain his laughter, France's long blonde hair gracefully floating every which way. _When we first met, it never crossed our minds to destroy, destroy, destroy. We were content to roll around in the mud and wrestle. Not until Ancient Rome separated us did we change._

They resurfaced with deep gasps, their hands pressed against the other's shoulders, all sheepish faces and doe-like eyes. That was when England realised they were both naked, and France had a _ridiculously_ good-looking figure. Flushing, he readied to break away-

However, France traced a long cut from shoulder to chest, eyes focused. England shivered slightly, staring down at the top of his head. "What's this from?"

Their eyes met- England was confused and surprised when he saw France's nervous, upset expression. _What could he possibly- oh._ It hit him like a bag of bricks. _He thinks it's from one of our wars. Stupid adorable bastard. Wait. Shit, not adorable._

"It was from Hungary," he explained, smiling slightly (punching himself inwardly at his stupid thoughts). "Not from a war. Not permanant."

Relief eased the tension in France's shoulders. "I see." His palms pressed against England's chest firmly, his knees close to England's- _has he grown?_ France mused. _He seems as tall as I am now._ He looked down again, slightly uncertain. "Do you... Er..."

"Do I...?" England drawled softly, amused.

"Marks," France finally forced out. "Do you have any... From me?"

The question took England off guard, suddenly remembering all of their previous wars. "I..." He trailed off, eyes awkwardly meeting. It was uncomfortable to discuss, one's permanant scars- it wounded a nation's pride, showed weakness.

 _You can trust him._

"On my thigh, down to the calf," he said softly, throat dry. "Hundred Year's War."

France nodded slowly, unsure why he felt upset to be responsible for that scar, unsure why he was being trusted by this powerhouse of a personification, unsure why he himself trusted said personification.

 _We've fought a thousand years. Hell, we hated each other a week or so ago. What are we even doing, playing this game with each other, when we know how it'll end?_

"I see," France spoke, uncertain thoughts still clouding his mind, voice quiet.

"We should be going," England said. France expected his default, walls-up expression, but instead received a smirk. "Now that you don't smell like shit."

France opened his mouth wide, shouting at England who laughed mirthfully and swam away for cover.

* * *

"We're close to the border," France said, trekking through the heavy mountainous brush with England by his side. "I can feel it."

"Getting closer to home?"

"Have to pass through Switzerland first."

England grimaced slightly. "Think he'll shoot us?"

"Probably. I'd shoot _you_ if you waltzed into France uninvited."

England laughed, bright and airy. "I don't doubt that." He unzipped his backpack, pulling out the canteen of water and handing it to France, smiling.

France frowned, accepting it. "You're giving me more than you've had."

"You need it."

"So do you," France growled, arguing for arguing's sake even though England was right.

Rolling his eyes, England sighed out dramatically. "The things I do. You're not even grateful." Arthur was too good at guilt-tripping, Francis decided, and scowling, he obeyed the younger nation.

They settled down in between a cluster of large boulders as night began to drape over the sky. England started a fire, assuming they were deep enough in the woods for a small cloud of smoke not to be seen. France watched England, studied his jawline, how the glow of fire highlighted his nose.

"You know," England began, "My country still hasn't declared war."

"I have. On Germany."

"I know." Their eyes met. "And I have a feeling that Russia has also."

France sighed, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. "I fear that if you don't join soon, Germany will destroy me."

Stiffening at his words, England bit his lip. "I can't control my people. And Germany hasn't invaded yet-"

"It's only a matter of time, England." France's voice rose. England fell silent, still worrying his bottom lip.

"I swore I'd protect you," he spoke softly. "At the Triple Entente. I swore it. I never would break a promise."

England never broke his promises, and France knew that all too well. He remembered England swearing revenge and torture from their gruesome past- all promises he'd eventually fulfilled. And during this hell of a week, he'd been protecting France assiduously.

Francis stared at England- no, _Arthur,_ the human, emotional side of him that rarely showed- and smiled. "I know."

* * *

Another day passed, another day of endless hiking. France's feet were killing him: when they finally rested for the night, he about fell asleep against England's shoulder. He felt more than heard England's soft chuckle, his head pressing against France's.

"Cinnamon."

England glanced down at him, eyes widening as France's head rested on his lap. "...What?"

"You smell like cinnamon, and paprika, and basil, and it's one of the most confusing, enchanting smells I've known," Francis murmured, grimacing as he awaited rejection, for England to angrily push him off his lap-

Fingers carded through his hair, England rhythmically entwining France's blonde curls around his finger. France knew he was smiling, could simply tell, and his eyelids started to droop, England's fingers soothing- the only person France would _ever_ allow touch his hair.

"I worry," Francis whispered, voice serious, as was prone to happen during the night with someone he trusted. "I worry about never finding love, and that my life will always be a dull throb, and that France will fall. I worry about my cat. I worry about what people think of me, what I've done in the recent past. I don't understand what I feel for-" he caught himself before he could admit something in his mindless rant, throat raw.

What the hell was he doing? England didn't care. England hated him, hated him for the Napoleonic Wars, the Seven Years War, the war for America's Independence...

"One day," Arthur hummed, "you're going to find someone who thinks the world of you, and wants nothing but to make you feel happy and safe. One day, you'll wake up and stare into one's eyes and see the miles and miles of love they have for you."

He fell quiet, fingers stilling in France's hair.

"And I'm _sure_ your fat cat is taking care of himself," he added, trying to lighten the mood. France's eyes caught his and they both laughed. After falling contentedly silent, Arthur affectionately brushed his hair out of his face, finishing, "And when that happens, when you find love: that person will be damned lucky to have you."

For the first night of his lifetime, France fell asleep completely, no "one eye open," no fearful fits, not terrified of someone slitting his throat while he slept.

For the first night of his lifetime, _Francis_ fell asleep with the words, _I want_ you _, I want you so badly,_ repeating through his mind.

* * *

The night watch wasn't a competition anymore. The two nations, finally at ease with each other, opened up- England didn't wear his guarded mask and neither did France. They were slowly cultivating a close friendship- it was as if the years of hate and war and destruction no longer mattered.

England tried not to focus on the past. He'd done terrible things to France, and France to him- but instead he worried himself over the future; not only what waited for him once he reached home (he'd probably be thrown onto a battlefield against Austria and Germany), but also what might change between him and France.

He didn't fancy losing what he'd worked hard to build. France had become _very_ important to him _very_ fast, and he didn't intend on giving that up. But England couldn't control anything, and something nagged at the back of his brain.

It would all go back to normal when they returned. No more deep talks at night, no more playful banter during the afternoon, no more flirting shamelessly, no more friendliness. They'd pretend to hate each other again, pretend for so long that it seemed real, just like it had happened the past centuries.

Arthur didn't want to pretend anymore.

" _Dieu,_ look." France pointed through the trees, voice hushed.

"A town," England chuckled. "How the hell did we stumble upon this?"

"This time, can we _not_ get caught?"

England huffed in agreement, both emerging into the busy street. People walked all around, making it relatively easy to blend in. England noticed France's strange look, and asked, "What is it?"

"I know this place. I've... fought here, against Austria, before." He shook his head. "Do you think they might recognise us? This _is_ a fairly big town."

"I don't think the Austrian police have made it this far west," England said. "We should be fine, as long as we're quick."

They walked farther, eventually coming across a bustling marketplace. Roaming quietly around, both snuck food expertly. Feigning interest in people nearby who asked them polite questions, such as "Where are you from?" or "What are you doing out here in Feldkirch?", the two countries made up convincing stories.

"We're visitors from Switzerland," Arthur spoke, a friendly smile across his lips as he glanced at France beside him. He spoke perfect German- France noted to ask him just how many languages he was fluent in later.

He continued speaking to the woman who had approached them, making small talk and being pleasant. Bored (especially because he wasn't as fluent in German as England was), Francis wandered around, drifting farther from England.

Blue eyes caught sight of a man sitting on the side of the street, face downcast and clothes dirty. France couldn't resist a pang of sympathy, and making sure England wasn't watching, he neared the man and sat beside him.

"Do you speak English?" France asked, smiling at the man.

The man made sure his face remained shadowed by his large hat, muttering in a gravelly voice, "Sparesly."

France frowned, something oddly familiar about this man. "What is your name?"

"My name? I have several." The man started to laugh, almost madly- France stood, a sudden reservation welling up in him. This man, he was too familiar, and it didn't click in France's brain until too late.

The man stood, advancing toward France, tipping his hat up, revealing glinting red eyes. "But I prefer the name Prussia, _France._ So good to see you out here!"

 _Slam!_ Prussia's foot connected with his stomach, sending France flying back and into one of the stands, smashing it. People shouted in confusion, backing away from the area. France hissed out, pushing himself up and engaging in a battle of fists with his old friend.

Prussia fought like a mad-man, but France could hold his own, fist slamming against Gilbert's jaw. His head flew back with a satisfying crack. They panted for breath, Prussia spitting out and wiping blood from his mouth, snarling, "You little traitor. Looks like you're whoring yourself out to England now? You little sl-"

With a yelp, Prussia was sent crashing backwards into a brick wall, England's eyes dark and his posture absolutely terrifying. France knew it was only a matter of time before England came marching in, and oh, poor Prussia. He should watch his mouth. France smirked, catching Prussia's eyes- his face slowly lost colour as England walked up to him.

Eyes glinting, England towered over Prussia, lifting his leg and slamming his boot into Prussia's face. "Scum," he said, smiling in a sick, dark way. "That's what you are, my dear Prussia." He gripped Prussia's collar, lifting him up off his feet- Gilbert's hands scrabbled at England's grip, choking. Blood dripped down his nose- France, still watching, decided that enough was enough. He'd always care about his old friend, no matter how infuriating he was now.

"England," he called out softly. "Enough."

That was all it took to grab England's attention. He dropped Prussia to the concrete, who gasped for breath- Arthur turned around and walked back to Francis, looking calm and friendly once more. The people standing around hushed, terrified of the complete 180 this strange man had taken.

Alarms started wailing in the distance, and people started muttering, voices growing louder, backing away slowly. England glanced around, fingers clenching around France's wrist. "We need to get out of here."

"How the hell did Prussia know we were-"

His voice was suddenly drowned out by police sirens, cars advancing towards them quickly. People started to scream and run: the two countries' eyes widened.

"Shit," England cursed. Grip tight on France's arm, he took off down the street, carelessly pushing people in their way aside. "For the record," he snapped, " _This_ is why we don't fraternise with suspicious looking people _sitting in the street!_ "

Defensively, France shouted back, "I was just-" He was cut off as England released his wrist and charged towards a man climbing into his car. He pushed the poor man to the ground, taking his key and swiftly starting the engine. France tried apologizing to the man, who just stared at him, terrified.

"Get in!" England demanded, glaring at France.

France, feeling unusually stubborn, crossed his arms, staring at England inside. "You're a bastard."

"Yes, yes, whatever you say, princess," England retorted, waving his hand. "Now let's _go!_ "

The police cars came swerving down the street, firing wildly at the two nations: France didn't need much convincing to hop quickly in the car. England floored the gas, and tires skidding, the car took off down the road.

France gripped the sides of the seat, fingernails digging into the leather. " _Dieu,_ you"ll kill us both!"

"I'm a splendid driver-" Their breaths hitched as England jerked the steering wheel, making a sharp turn. France was too frazzled and overloaded in the mind to reply.

Glancing out the window behind him, France said, tangled hair whipping in his face, "I think we lost them!"

England opened his mouth to reply when a sharp, excruciatingly loud _CRACK!_ sounded between them. He swerved, heart jumping in his chest, and lost control of the car.

In seconds, they were falling off the edge of the bridge they were on, the car slamming into the water, quickly and easily sinking. Frantically, England slammed his foot against the window, shattering it- gripping the jagged edges, he pulled himself out, bubbles floating everywhere as the car sank lower and lower.

He swam to the surface, gasping for breath. "France?" He rasped, wildly searching for his companion who hadn't yet broken the surface. He'd lost Francis within the chaos and confusion- he must have still been stuck in the car, or worse- _shot_.

England took a deep breath and dove back down, eyes catching blurry sight of the car. He swam to the passengers side, making a muffled sound when he saw France.

He appeared pinned in between his chair and the front wheel, which had broken through the car on impact with the water. He struggled frantically, eyes catching England's, pleading for help.

 _I could leave him here to die. I could take over his country and absorb him into my Empire._

England gripped the other's shoulders, anchoring himself, and firmly tilting France's strong jaw towards him, pressed their mouths together.

France gave a muffled shout of surprise, pushing against Arthur's chest until he finally realised that England was giving him air. He opened his mouth, trying not to get lost in thoughts like _Oh god, I'm kissing him-_ because England was simply breathing air into his lungs. That was it.

But France, body thrumming with adrenaline, didn't give a damn. His fingers tangled into Arthur's hair, pressing him closer, and closed his eyes, inhaling England's breath. They simply floated, holding each other, breathing life into each other, underwater in their own world.

He felt Arthur's fingers trace along his jaw, a warning that he was about to move back. France held his breath and the two broke apart, staring at each other in a short trance before England swam lower, hands gripping the wheel pinning France's leg. He tugged, eyes squeezing shut as he exerted all of his force on the car, hands burning. Bubbles floated in a quick stream from his nose, straining once again, until finally, the wheel moved back, just enough for France to wiggle out.

Grabbing each other, England and France hurriedly swam to the surface, breaking free with loud gasps, panting for air.

"I-I thought-" France gasped out quickly- "When they fired, you veered so suddenly, I thought you'd been..."

He thought England had been shot. England, hair plastered to his face, breathlessly replied, "I didn't know what happened, and I, I just- I lost control, and- your leg, and- Are you hurt?"

France had no clue. His body and mind were still reeling in shock from the nasty accident and the mind-blowing feeling of England's mouth against his, so he simply gripped Arthur's shoulders. "Just- just get us to land."

Once they reached the bank of the lake, England collapsed on the sand beside France, both staring up at the sky and trying to control their racing hearts. They sat there in silence, replaying the incident over and over again- France finally glanced at England. "We have to get to Switzerland. We're sitting ducks here."

England nodded, pushing himself up, breathing finally under control. "Just tell me where to..." He trailed off, eyes locking on Francis's leg. "Oh my god."

France pushed himself up, confused- then he saw his leg, mangled and bleeding. He inhaled sharply, fingers curling into the sand and mud beneath, and that was when the pain starting crashing over him in waves.

Arthur, seeing his distress, kneeled beside him and hoisted him up, his arm over England's shoulders. "You lean on me," England said: France, groaning and wincing in agony, didn't think of doing anything but that.

* * *

Progressing slowly, the two nations finally took a rest, leaning against the wide bark of a tree. France slumped against England, breathing in and out harshly, shuddering as his leg throbbed.

"We lost most of our supplies in the water," England murmured, voice close to France's ear. His throat was obviously sore: France could tell as he spoke. "But at least we have some canned food left unsoiled."

He pulled out the two cans they had left. "Peaches," he grimaced, "And... More peaches."

Despite his condition, France let out a throaty, smug laugh. "Your favourite."

"Mm," England hummed, their eyes meeting. France couldn't help but observe his gentle smile, how his lips moved as he spoke, "I think I'll let you eat them."

"But-"

England pushed the open cans toward him. "Don't argue. I don't like them, I won't eat them."

England would have eaten the peaches in any other situation, France knew. But he also knew what England saw- his companion, gaunt and shaking, in pain. England had too much honour to eat when France looked quite frankly like the walking dead.

And that look, that gentle look- England would always win using it against France.

They lay together for awhile, quiet. France felt the fingers trailing through his hair, winding it around his finger, the way England always played with his hair. He could tell that England was growing sick, too- giving all of his provisions to France made sure of that. It angered France, that England wasn't caring for his own self.

* * *

"Francis."

Blue eyes opened groggily, locking on England's concerned face. "Mmm..."

"Francis, come on. They're on our trail. We need to go." He hoisted France's arm around his shoulders, dragging him up against his side- France's head lolled heavily, feeling as if he were about to retch.

The sky was still dark- France's eyes, blurred, could barely make out the dark clouds above. If things couldn't get worse, rain started to fall, heavy drops on France's too hot skin. He felt as if his body was on fire, burning up- _surely death would be sweeter than this,_ he thought, sight and noise fading in and out.

They struggled through the dense forest for too long- France suddenly grew agitated, angry at the trees he'd seen non-stop for weeks, frustrated at the hell he was living in, livid that he'd fallen _hard_ for a man that had wanted him dead two weeks ago.

"I can't do this," Francis finally cried out, pushing away from Arthur. "I hate this, I hate it so much-"

"W-what?" England looked confused, hair plastered to his face, dripping wet as rain poured around them.

"This _game_!" France hissed, dizzy but slapping away England's hand. "Why are we playing this game when we know what inevitably will happen?!"

"Calm down-"

"I've always hated you, and you've always hated me, and if that changed, _merde,_ nations can't have _feelings_ like this-"

England grabbed his face, holding him still, eyes locked. "My _feelings_ are not a game." That was all he said, their noses brushing: France wanted nothing more than to kiss England senseless.

They hobbled on together again, mud streaked faces and sopping wet hair. It was miserable, like a nightmare- knowing you were being chased down like a fox.

By the time they finally crossed the Austrian border, France was ready to pass out. England was growing weaker, struggling to support France and his own self.

He felt the gun press against his head before he heard the voice. "France and England. Surprising to see you cooperating."

"Switzerland," England hissed, "We aren't here to harm you, for God's sake. Look at us!"

"All I see," Switzerland snapped, "are two countries who shouldn't be-"

"Brother," a soft voice pleaded. England glanced over to see Liechtenstein, glaring at her brother through the rain. "Give them sanctuary. Please, they're sick."

Switzerland had one weak area, and that was his sister. Swallowing, he dropped the gun from England's head and gestured irritably. "Come with us, then."

* * *

 _Lol, this has turned into a soap opera. Like everything else I write. *sighs*_


	7. Chapter 7

_He's recovering quickly. I've never seen anyone heal that fast!_

 _I know. He's as tough as nails._

Arm thrown over his head, Francis opened his eyes, focusing on a blurry... Ceiling? Had everything merely been a dream? He sat up, groaning and rubbing his head. No, this was not his house in Calais.

The door creaked open, and in walked Arthur, dressed in clean white clothes.

"Am I in Heaven?"

England laughed, eyes squinting and lips spread in a broad grin. "No. We're in a small village in Switzerland." He neared, sitting beside France on his bed. "But... I suppose you remember little?"

France tilted his head up, trying to recall what happened. "Mm... Nothing after Switzerland."

"They took us to this sanctuary. We'll be safe for... For as long as we stay here." England's eyes brightened. "And... hiking really _is_ overrated..."

France raised an eyebrow. "Are you wanting to stay?"

"If you don't, I mean, that's fine, it was just a suggestion-"

" _Non, cher,"_ France shook his head. "Neither of us are in the condition to travel."

For the first time, France gazed at England and saw not a strong, mighty Empire, but a slowly sickening man, health truly deteriorating. Upset, France stood, still wobbly and dizzy- Arthur stood, too, holding out his hands.

"Woah, calm down. Don't push it."

"You need help, too!" France pointed out in frustration. "I'm not fragile porcelain, _Dieu_. I'm _France_. I can take care of myself, and so should you."

England hesitated, uncertain of what to say. "I... I know." He shook his head. "So ungrateful," he sniffed, smiling. "I'm truly fine, Francis. They've been feeding me ever since we arrived."

France didn't look too sure, but asked, "How long have I been asleep?"

"A day." England paused and walked to the window, leaning on his elbows. "Did you know that Liechtenstein can make fabulous apple pie?"

Smiling, France walked and stopped beside him. "Does she?" They watched each other, eyes locked in some sort of trance: France broke it, nervously looking down at his hands. "I..." _I think I've fallen in love with you._ "I want you to show me around."

England nodded and walked to the door. France bit his lip, frustrated that he was unable to say the words he'd wanted to say.

"Aren't you coming?" Arthur asked, holding the door open. Francis shook his head to clear his thoughts, and smiling, followed Arthur out. He winced as they walked out, his eyes adjusting to the bright light. It wasn't a big village, nor sophisticated like the cities they'd seen in Austria. But France instantly felt drawn to this village, watching the people walk around, the children playing in the dirt pathways- it reminded him of a village he'd lived in many years ago.

"What's with that look?"

France glanced at England and laughed softly. "It just reminds me of something."

"There's a river that leads into a waterfall beyond those houses," England pointed out. "We're actually up rather high."

That gave France a wonderful idea, and mischievously blinking his eyes at England, he suggested, "Oh, some skinny-dipping at night?"

Arthur spluttered and flushed, retorting very quickly, " _No._ "

They stood on the porch of France's make-shift house, just staring out at the peaceful surroundings. France sighed out, content. "I could stay here forever."

"No thank you," an irritable voice sounded: France and England turned their heads to see Switzerland nearing. The rifle he'd pointed at England a day ago was strapped around his shoulder: at least he wasn't trying to kill them. Yet.

"Switzerland," France said, "Thank you for helping us."

Scoffing, Switzerland looked away. "I would have left you in a heartbeat. Thank my sister."

"Then we will," England snarked, walking down the steps and down the street with France by his side. Once they were out of ear-shot, Arthur muttered, "I _swear,_ something permanently was wedged up his arse."

Snickering, France opened his mouth to reply, but shut up as they heard Liechtenstein calling to them. "France, England!" She stood aways down the street, and the moment France saw her, he blanched and gripped England's arm tightly.

"What's wrong? France?" England asked, standing in front of him and blocking his view of the nation that looked _very_ akin to someone in his past. Shaking his head, France breathed out, anchoring himself to England, and steadied.

"Nothing. I thought I saw... someone else."

Liechtenstein walked over, concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Oh, he's fine," England answered, but France knew he thought otherwise. "He's still recovering."

"Your leg healed fast, France," she smiled, awaiting his reply with big eyes.

"You... you cut your hair," France managed weakly, swallowing and trying to act more like himself. "And you look dashing, my dear," he said flirtatiously, making Liechtenstein giggle and bite her thumb. England looked irritated, swiftly releasing France's wrist.

"Liechtenstein, _dear,_ could you show France around?" He asked, giving France a disinterested glare. "I'm sure he'd _love_ to taste your apple pie."

"Of course!" She grabbed France's sleeve, excitedly dragging him off. Confused and (although he'd never admit it) stung by England's sudden aloof attitude, France glanced back at him, only to see his back as he walked off.

* * *

"This is the city hall," Liechtenstein grinned, opening wooden doors to a large, open area that could hold meetings, and what looked like a bar in the far corner. Seeing France's raised eyebrows, she added, "Of course, we serve beer here, too. But that's just during our festival nights."

" _Dieu,_ how old are you?" France asked, hand over his chest in pretend shock. She laughed, shaking her head.

"No, not me. Brother would kill me!"

France frowned, nudging her shoulder. She was all smiles, as if she was just glad someone was talking to her- France wondered what a lonely life she led. "Don't say such things. Your brother cares for you." The next part he muttered under his breath, "A little _too_ much if you ask me."

"And _someone_ cares for you," she said, expression serious.

"What? Who?"

Rolling her eyes, Liechtenstein tilted her head at France. "Oh, don't tell me you didn't notice the way he gazed at you on the porch. Or the way he glared at you when you started flirting."

"Flirting?" France scoffed. "I don't _flirt._ "

"Well, whatever _you'd_ call it, then. The point is..." she looked away, brow scrunching together thoughtfully. "He's absolutely jealous. The British Empire's weakness... is _you,_ the country of France, whom he supposedly always loathed."

"He still does," France spat bitterly, almost surprised the way his own words sounded. "Once we return to our countries it'll all go back to normal."

 _"Shizcoff,"_ Liechtenstein huffed. "You're so stubborn." She led the way out, back onto the dirt pathway, and as soon as France emerged from the building, a soccer ball slammed into his stomach, taking his breath away. Wheezing, France raised an eyebrow at the laughing children- but it wasn't the native children who'd hit him. England looked _too_ satisfied with himself, trotting up to France and taking the soccer ball.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Arthur drawled out, trying (and succeeding) to irritate France by drawing out his accent. "Were you standing there?"

"Nice shot, mister!" One of the kids shouted, the rest still laughing- France scowled at England, not at all impressed. England shrugged, throwing the ball on the ground in front of him, and called over his shoulder, "Try not to get in the way, love."

Liechtenstein was giggling as England rocketed the ball back to the group of kids, joining their game once again. She turned to France, who was (definitely _not_ pouting) seething, and said, "I told you. _Completely_ jealous."

* * *

Liechtenstein eventually grabbed both France and England, who'd been deliberately ignoring one another, and started, "There's a festival tonight! My dear brother is bringing you some nice clothes-"

"Woah, woah, _woah._ " England stopped her, hands out. "When did all this happen, and why are we just finding this out now?"

She looked slightly mischievous, shrugging. "Since we have new-comers, the village decided to celebrate! There'll be dancing and drinking and drunk people and-"

France spluttered, "Aren't you a _bit_ too young to be thinking about those type of things?" England looked slightly flushed, too, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

Liechtenstein wouldn't be deterred, grinning as she continued, "Killjoys, I think you both _need_ a drink. I'll see you there!" She skipped off, pleased with herself, leaving behind two awkward personifications who still weren't talking to each other.

"Well then," France said stiffly, turning away from England. "I guess I'll-"

England's fingers caught his wrist, pulling him back. His expression looked like a lost puppy, and France almost smiled. "Why are you ignoring me? Is it because I hit you with a soccer ball? I didn't mean-"

"Woah, hold on-"

"-And I know you're still in pain, but i was just trying to get your atten-"

"Shut up, _Dieu_!" France laughed, finally silencing a rambling England. " _You_ were ignoring _me,_ if I remember correctly."

England looked away, rubbing the back of his head. "Oh. Right. Yes. Er... right."

"And why?" France asked, and for some reason his heartbeat sped up, Liechtenstein's words echoing in his head. _Were you really jealous? Do you care for me as I do you?_

England's face was slightly red, his green eyes bright as they locked with France's. He opened his mouth to finally reply when Switzerland barged in between them, holding stacks of clothes, expression as disgruntled as usual.

"I don't even know why my sister likes you bastards," he huffed, shoving their folded clothes into their faces. He stormed off and like his sister, left behind two flustered, awkward personifications.

"Well," France stammered once again. "I'll see you. Around."

"Yeah," England agreed weakly as they parted ways.

* * *

" _Merde,_ this is so _débile_ ," France hissed, trying to adjust his too-tight pants. He swore Liechtenstein had it out for him, or was trying to embarrass him, or was just trying to get under his skin, because not only were his pants skin-tight, his blue flannel shirt was almost see-through. As smooth as France was with the _ladies_ (cough cough, _men_ ), he had slight reservations concerning his body.

 _It's not as if he's never seen my body,_ France reasoned, trying to calm himself. _Why am I getting so worked up?_

Shaking his head in frustration, France stepped away from the mirror, adjusting his pants one last time, and hoped to God everyone looked as ridiculous as he did.

Stepping outside into the night confirmed his suspicion: everyone flocking to the city hall looked just as flamboyant, woman in colorful dresses and men in pants that France might have worn in the 1800's. Sighing, France strode down the steps of his porch and into the crowds, finally making his way to the city hall.

Liechtenstein came out of nowhere, bouncing around him radiantly. "You look nice, France!"

France narrowed his eyes at her good-naturedly, walking alongside her as they entered the big building. Chairs were set up on both sides of the room and near the back, leaving the center open for what France assumed would be dancing. Several people were already at the bar in the corner of the room, laughing and hoisting up mugs. Pleasant conversation was a content hum throughout the large area, but the one person Francis was eager to see wasn't there.

Of course England didn't come. He shouldn't have gotten his hopes up.

"Come on!" Liechtenstein guided him to the front row of seats, sitting down beside him- people were starting to sit, the lights dimming just slightly. Only then did France notice the stool in the center of the room: apparently there wouldn't be dancing just yet.

Once everyone hushed and took their seats, France felt his curiosity peak. He wasn't prepared for the wonderful surprise that walked through the door: England's eyes met his, a small smile on his face. France's eyebrows raised in surprise, unable to take his eyes off his figure.

Arthur took a seat on the stool, violin in hand. France already was completely captivated, unaware of Liechtenstein's giddy smile or Switzerland scowling on his right. Flipping his hair and closing his eyes, England started to play, wrist fluidly moving the bow up and down, the fast-paced beautiful song echoing through the whole room.

People started clapping and laughing, cheering Arthur on. He stood, skipping through the room, in between isles as he played, light on his feet and eyes bright. Even France saw Switzerland getting caught up in the clapping in the cheering, not as irritated as he was before.

Then Arthur started twirling and skipping down the isle behind France, and _somehow_ France's chair slid out from his isle with Francis still sitting in it. Arthur started skipping around his chair, and Francis started laughing, eyes locking with Arthur's as he stopped in front of him. He bent down slightly, flirtatiously close to Francis's face, and finally finished his song, dropping the violin from his chin.

Everyone cheered, England straightening and taking a bow, and then disappeared behind a red curtain near the back of the room. People took his absence as a break, standing and wandering around the room, conversing and getting drinks.

Liechtenstein approached France, laughing, "Isn't he good?"

France was still a bit star-struck, and chuckled, " _Oui,_ he is. Were you planning on kicking my chair out?" He fixed Liechtenstein with a playful glare.

"Of course not! That was him!" she waggled her eyebrows almost flirtatiously. "He's got the hots for _someone_."

Rolling his eyes, France stood and put his seat back, watching as Liechtenstein hovered around her brother excitedly. She looked so happy, eyes locked on her brother- the sounds in the room started to fade slightly as France wondered, _did_ _Arthur and I stare at each other like that?_

 _"_ Francis."

Turning, France stood face to face with England, his hair now slicked back in a way only he could make look good. Green eyes danced with mirth as he teased, "I didn't scare you out of deep, inappropriate thoughts, did I?"

 _Yes. Completely inappropriate._ "You'll never know," France returned, raising his eyebrows playfully. Arthur grinned, and music swelled from the front of the room- a mini group of people holding cellos and violas and guitars started playing. People started to dance, laughing and swirling around, more and more joining.

England looked to France, and suddenly became very, _very_ nervous. "So," he started, voice tense and anxious. "Do... do you maybe... would you like-"

The _British Empire_ was stumbling over his words? All because of a silly invitation to dance? France couldn't help but give a soft laugh, touching Arthur's shoulder. "Want to dance?"

Arthur's face relaxed, as if forgetting that there was touching involved in dancing- because as soon as France grabbed his hand and held his hip, guiding him to the crowd of people, he flushed nervously and stammered, "H-hey! I wanted to lead-"

"Too bad _I_ invited you," Francis chuckled, guiding Arthur's hand to his shoulder. Both of their hands were sweaty, palms joined together. Arthur really never was nervous, and this was strange for both of them, dancing and close to each other, and Francis decided Arthur's anxiety really was endearing.

But then the tempo picked up, and they both relaxed, wildly twisting and dancing around each other, laughter echoing throughout the large room, and Francis decided not to think about anything but the man in front of him.

The hour of dancing bled into two, which bled into three: the tempo had slowed by now, the wild dancing now a soft swaying, the lights almost completely dimmed. Francis felt more than saw Arthur, felt his breath puffing close to his jawline, felt as their cheeks pressed together.

 _Ah, your love language is touch,_ France wanted to whisper in his ear. _And I'm so, irrevocably in love with you._ Francis tilted his head slightly, their noses barely touching, eyes half lidded and gazing at each other.

 _Kiss me,_ Arthur wanted to say. Before he got the chance, France buried his face into Arthur's shoulder, sighing out contentedly. Arthur twined their fingers together, trying not to get caught up in thoughts like _our hands fit together perfectly,_ because they were _nations_ with responsibilities and no time for silly sentiments-

Francis felt Arthur's shiver when he whispered against his neck, "I'm glad you ran out onto that street to try and protect the Archduke."

"And here I thought you hated my guts," Arthur whispered back with a smile. Francis gave a soft laugh.

"Bastard, I still do. But, if you'd listened to me... we wouldn't have grown fond of each other."

Arthur hummed softly. Francis looked up and saw the smile, half-lidded bright eyes gazing back at him, and he _knew_ what was happening. It was too powerful to stop, even for nations like them.

* * *

France sat there in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, replaying wonderful memories of dancing and music and being in love and _Arthur._ He shifted, trying to sleep, or else he'd be a bear in the morning, but something was... off.

The room was too dark. Too silent. He didn't hear Arthur's breathing, nor could he feel his warmth.

 _Ah. That's it. I'm so used to sleeping next to Arthur that sleeping without him is foreign to me now._

France scoffed at himself. He, the mighty France, was afraid.

And promptly he jumped out of bed, walking out in the middle of the night to England's cabin (thankfully next to his), feet damp from the drying mud. He didn't bother knocking. Instead he walked in, quietly shutting the door behind him, padding slowly into England's bedroom.

 _This is ridiculous_ , he mused. _He'll probably turn me away. He doesn't need to be watching over me now._

Arthur shifted and leaned up slightly in his bed, gazing up and down at the figure in the doorframe. "...Francis?"

" _Bonsoir_ ," France greeted quietly, shifting from foot to foot with a sheepish smile. Arthur sat up completely- Francis couldn't help but notice his eyes were wide. He hadn't been sleeping either.

"Couldn't sleep?" Arthur questioned, voice gentle.

Francis shook his head, the unspoken question hanging in the room. Arthur's lips quirked up, murmuring, "C'mere, princess."

He held out his arms after patting the side of the bed- Francis quickly slid under the covers to his side, heart swelling as he nestled into Arthur's shoulder, Arthur pulling the blankets up to their chests. They both settled with a content sigh, before Francis spoke softly, " _Merci_ , Arthur."

Arthur hummed- Francis glanced up to see that his eyes were closed and a smile had formed over his lips.

* * *

 _Oh my God it really is a soap opera. *laughs at self*_

 _Anyway, if you wanna hear England's violin song, search Alexander Rybak's song "Fairytale." Yes, it's a Eurovision song. I'm obsessed, what can I say?_

 _Thanks reviewers! You're what keep me going! :)_


	8. Chapter 8

All Francis knew when he woke up was the feeling of gentle breath on his forehead, nose buried in his hair, an arm slung around his waist and another under his head, legs twined under the blankets. He was warm and content and did _not_ plan on ruining the moment by stirring- he knew that it was Arthur above him because his scent, his distinct scent floated around the room, hovering around them like an aura.

Arthur still slept, chest rising and falling, bare. Francis couldn't help but marvel at the strength of those muscles, hand coming to rest on Arthur's abdomen. Almost lecherously he caught himself thinking _Arthur should go around shirtless more._

"I know you're awake. You're making funny faces."

Francis's warm chuckle vibrated against Arthur's skin. He made no move to get up, so neither did France, content to just lay pressed against the other nation. The hand under France's head stroked through his hair lazily, twirling the soft strands into loops around Arthur's finger.

"What on earth are we doing?" Came Arthur's soft voice, almost an amused laugh, close to Francis's ear.

He wasn't talking about now, obviously. He was talking about whatever this new _thing_ was- sexual attraction, love, lust, whatever it might be. France was sure it was _not_ the third option. But he ignored the question for the time being with his own question.

"Aren't most nations asexual?" France murmured, lips barely brushing against Arthur's bare skin. He felt Arthur's hum reverberate through his whole body. A personification's body was wired differently than humans: sex was not their foremost concern, although, back when things were less civilized, nations would take over other nations in that way, nonconsensual. But things changed.

"So am I." Their eyes met, and Arthur's lips quirked up sheepishly. "So _was_ I? I don't even know at this point."

"We can... admit it, then?" France tentatively asked, throat dry and chest constricting.

Arthur huffed, staring up at the ceiling. "That we obviously feel something for each other that surprisingly _isn't_ hate? I guess it's about time we stop acting like awkward human teenagers and faced it."

 _How strange,_ France thought amusedly, heart swelling at Arthur's words. _We loathed each other's guts a week ago, and I'm sure we wanted each other dead on that mission. And now we're suddenly tripping head over heels for each other. If there truly is a higher power, He brings people together in the strangest, most mysterious ways._

"We are no longer enemies, then?"

Arthur looked at him incredulously, eyes shining playfully. "Heavens, of course we'll always be enemies! Honestly, I couldn't image a world without you contradicting my every word."

"I could."

" _Exactly._ "

After a moment's pause, France admitted, "Being a favourite of the British Empire isn't as bad as I thought." He vainly tried not to laugh at Arthur's unimpressed expression.

Yanking his hair slightly, England retorted, "Watch it, you tosser." But the look in Arthur's eyes said something entirely different, and France inwardly melted at the sight.

 _Being a favourite of the British Empire isn't as bad as I thought, because when he loves you, he loves you completely, almost overwhelmingly. He'd give his own body, his own heart to protect yours in an instant. He's loyal and faithful, and although it's hard to win his love, it's the most rewarding thing to have, to be the only one who sees him with his guard down, completely vulnerable for you._

"I'm going to take a shower," Arthur sighed out, pushing himself out of bed with one last affectionate tug of France's hair. Trying not to stare at his toned body or the way his sweatpants rode low on his hips, France rolled over with a muffled sound of acknowledgment, burying his face into the nearest pillow that smelled like England before pushing himself up and out of bed.

The sudden sound of England's front door being swung open and loud footsteps thumping down the hall made them both jolt, eyes wide. "Get in the shower!" France hissed, pushing England into the bathroom and quickly shutting the door behind him, right as Liechtenstein burst into the room.

"England! I need to tell you..." she trailed off in confusion, staring at France. "And just what are you doing in here?"

Luckily, France was quick on his feet, and stammered, "I'm...taking a shower! _Oui,_ that's exactly what I'm doing."

She frowned, tilting her head. "Don't you have a shower in your room?"

"Er... well..." France swallowed, trying to look anywhere but at her. "It... it wasn't heating up! A-and England offered to let me use his. So, I'll just be off-"

He turned and opened the bathroom door, but Liechtenstein, in her sweet voice, asked, "Wait, France... Can I talk to you?"

Before Francis could protest, she pushed in, shutting the door behind them. Reluctantly, France reached into the shower, sure not to open the curtain too wide and reveal England, and turned the water on. "I promise I won't bother you for too long, it's just that... I need to get something off my chest..." she trailed off again with a small huff of laughter. Pointing at the now-steaming shower, she said, "I'm pretty sure you can get in, France."

"Oh," France laughed weakly. "Yes. Right. Ok." He opened the curtain slightly, preparing to step in, when Liechtenstein stopped her monologue, laughing again.

"Aren't you going to take off your clothes?" Seeing his mortified expression, she turned her head, closing her eyes. "Don't worry, I won't peek. As I was saying, I just have this feeling that I don't live up to Switzerland's expectations..."

"Oh," France returned, voice just as effete as previously, stripping completely. This was going to be the most awkward experience, and he couldn't imagine what Arthur was thinking behind the curtain. But, he couldn't stand around naked next to the sink, so swallowing his pride, he brushed the curtain aside and carefully stepped in.

Arthur made room for France as he crowded in, crossing his arms over his chest, water dripping down his face. Tentatively, they glanced at each other, face to face: out of his peripheral vision Francis could see that England still had his sweatpants on. Steam rose around them and hopefully concealed France's very naked _lower_ half. Liechtenstein continued rambling on, France calling out quietly, "Right."

Their eyes awkwardly avoided each other. Arthur looked nonchalantly at the wall and France stared holes into the curtain as the water poured onto the back of his head, running in rivulets down his shoulders.

Arthur couldn't take it anymore, and spotted a washcloth behind France. He reached over, grabbing the flimsy wet old cloth, and plopped it over his eyes, tilting his head up into the water spray so that the washcloth wouldn't slide off and his wandering eyes wouldn't betray him.

Entire body shaking with wild laughter, France covered his mouth to contain himself at the comical sight. He gave England a half-hearted glare, trying not to make any noises, but couldn't stop laughing when he saw the grin on his face and the finger lifted to his lips. Everything happened to be hilarious when you weren't allowed to laugh.

It wasn't too long until Liechtenstein seemed content, sighing out, "Well, thanks for listening. Have fun!" He voice carried a lilt that almost sounded conniving, as if she knew more than she'd admit as the door shut and her footsteps echoed down the hallway. France finally burst out into fits of laughter, hands clutching at his stomach. England laughed too and finally opened his eyes, washcloth discarded at the floor as France stumbled out of the shower.

" _Dieu_ ," France cried out, voice trembling with mirth. "You _idiot_."

* * *

A chilly breeze swept through the town as France and England emerged out of England's temporary house, walking down the steps side by side. Wind blowing his hair around, France murmured, "We should contact Russia and get out of this mess."

Arthur hummed his agreement, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rode up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin: Francis tried (and failed) not to stare. "I almost forgot. Good thinking."

For some odd reason, France felt proud at the praise, walking alongside England as they approached Switzerland. He glared at them, currently drying clothes on his clothesline, and snapped, "What? Make this quick, God knows I don't have all day-"

"We need to contact Ivan Braginsky," France quickly cut in, not wanting to spend more time than necessary with the other irritating nation.

Switzerland raised his eyebrows thoughtfully, but then shrugged, pointing back at the city hall. "Telephone's in there."

France glanced at England, following him as they walked the path to the big building. Telephones were still practically new, and it took Francis and Arthur about half an hour to actually figure out how to contact the Russian government's building, let alone call Ivan's office. " _Zdravstvujtye?_ "

England's lips quirked up at the sound of Ivan's young voice almost fondly. "Russia? This is England."

"Ah!" He quickly transitioned out of Russian, smile evident from his voice. " _Англия!_ It's been awhile!"

"France is here, too."

Russia quickly silenced, obviously miffed, and France huffed, crossing his arms. Apparently, someone was still sore from the Napoleonic wars. " _Merde,_ can't you just drop it?"

"This better be good, England," Ivan warned.

Arthur could practically see him crossing his arms and pouting. It made him smile. "Well... France and I have found ourselves in a pickle. Our bosses forced us into working together on a mission to protect the Archduke of Austria-"

Russia snorted. "That _obviously_ went well."

France growled, but England continued before he could snap back. "Unfortunately, we found ourselves fleeing across the Austrian Empire. A certain organization set us up, and now the Austrian police are hunting us down. And I don't want to do this, love, but I must ask of you a small favor."

Laughing softly over the line, Ivan replied, "Anything, Arthur. All you need do is ask."

England smiled. France frowned- apparently England and Russia had bonded in friendship since his Napoleonic era, although it shouldn't have taken him by surprise. During that time, France had nearly conquered all Europe... except for a certain infuriating, powerful country called England, who would simply always remain unbeatable. He'd encouraged all of the countries under France- including Russia- to rise up and fight with the island nation. France would never have that kind of thrilling control or power again.

"Could you come get us? It's not safe for us to travel."

Ivan hummed as if he were nodding. "And perhaps clear your name?"

" _Names,_ " France corrected pointedly. England rolled his eyes.

"That would be wonderful, thank you, darling." He proceeded to give Ivan their coordinates, twirling the cord around his finger aimlessly. France zoned out, England's voice fading from his mind as his nose picked up the familiar scent of burning.

Perhaps someone was starting a bonfire outside. Lost in thought, France didn't think much of it, staring out the window. _What does England think of my old self, the once power-hungry empire that almost took over all of Europe? Did he bond with Russia over hate for me?_ Almost jealous, France remembered Waterloo and shuddered.

 _"Surrender!" England spat, forcing France down into the mud, staining the white and blue. Green eyes glittered with contempt and loathing, compelling France into submission, bowing his grime-streaked forehead in defeat. England was everything he hated in that memory._

 _But if he'd thought the battlefield was cold, the atmosphere in the treaty-room was frigid, tense. England and his boss held a certain authority that no one dare challenge, complete dominance over the conference. France could smell the haughtiness from his place at the end of the table, slouched forward miserably as the now-freed countries he'd dominated slandered and scoffed at him as if he weren't there._

 _A hand touched his shoulder, fingertips pressing slightly, reminding him of Rome, his abuse, everything he despised and feared. He looked up, jaw clenched and hands curled into angry fists in his lap. He probably looked awful, bags under his eyes, pale and dirty, greasy hair, malnourished- and when he looked up at England, whose hand remained still on his shoulder, he saw concern, not contempt._

At the time, he'd thought nothing of it. But the memory, however despondent, almost brightened up France. England had cared even back then, even if neither of them knew it. Nations couldn't control themselves when leaders thirsted for power, and France had fallen into that tempting trap many a time.

His thoughts trailed off as that strange smell returned, sharper and prominent. Brow scrunching, France opened the door to get some fresh air, when the smell suddenly assaulted him, overpowering. Arthur finally ended the call, walking over to him. Noticing his miffed expression, he frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Something's burning," France murmured, confused.

That was when everything exploded into chaos.

A loud blast rocketed close, _too_ close, throwing both nations off their feet and to the ground. Dizzily, France forced himself to his knees, ears ringing- England said something, perhaps he screamed _grenade!,_ eyes wide, but in his disoriented state of mind France couldn't make out sounds. He suddenly was lifted to his feet, leaning against England, and the sound came rushing back into his ears.

People screamed. The village was under attack, and it was burning. Someone had set the houses on fire- smoke billowed everywhere, as far as the eye could see. Eyes watering, France held England close to him, their eyes connecting.

"The Black Hand," Francis gasped out, eyes widening in terror. "They found us, they've come to kill us-"

England interrupted his almost hysterical words with two hands cupping his cheeks. "You stay with me. Don't let me lose sight of you, you hear?"

France nodded, eyes trustingly boring into England's, but froze when he caught sight of an agent, dressed in black, machine gun in his arms. England whipped around as the man called out, voice scratchy and deep. "So. The two countries outsmarted the Black Hand." His smirk grew vicious. "But you can't outsmart an assassin, can you?"

England turned, gripped France's wrist, and ran, both disappearing into the thick grey smoke. The assassin chuckled, calling out, "Run as fast as you can, pretty nations. I'll catch you." If his targets thought they could outsmart him, they were in for a rude awakening.

Navigating through heavy smoke and flames, Arthur and Francis raced through the village, terrified people running all around them, grabbing their children and belongings and their loved ones and fleeing for their lives. _We did this,_ France couldn't help but think in despair. _We brought death and fire to this happy town._

"Move out of the way!" Arthur shouted, voice hoarse, shoving people aside as they raced through the chaotic mass, grip on Francis tightening. The assassin's words echoed through their minds as they sprinted out of the town, headed for the rocky, dangerous mountains that surrounded the village.

They were so close to reaching the cover of the mountains, when Arthur suddenly halted, eyes growing wide in disbelief.

In the chaos and panic, they had forgotten about the deep raging river that separated the town from the mountains. Panicked, Arthur released France's hand, running up and down the bank, trying to find a makeshift bridge. _No, no, no. This can't be happening. We were so close, so close to safety-_

"We could wade across!" France desperately called out, eyes wildly scanning the bank, searching for God knows what in the opposite direction of Arthur.

"How could we get down there?" Arthur now sounded hysterical, turning to France. "It's too steep of a drop to even approach-" He trailed off, eyes locking on the figure that emerged through the smoke.

The assassin chuckled, lips quirking up cruelly. "Let's finish this, shall we?" He said crisply, nonchalantly, pointing his weapon at the first target, the older one with the long hair. Everything suddenly dissolved into slow motion to England, eyes wide in panic. He caught sight of France, France in danger, and acted on instinct and a promise.

" _France!_ _"_

Shocked into paralysis, Francis could barely register England's voice. In a matter of seconds Arthur's figure skidded to a halt in front of him: he held his arms out wide in front of France, giving the assassin a perfect shot.

 _He's sacrificing himself for me._

" _Angleterre_!" France gasped out in anguish, expression horrified, overshadowed by _BANG! BANG! BANG!_

Green eyes widened a fraction, inhaling sharply. For a brief moment, time stood still.

England stumbled backwards, his weight falling completely onto France, who couldn't hold them both. They plummeted over the steep embankment and into the water, France letting out a sharp cry. The secret assassin turned, his job complete, disappearing into the smoky, blazing village, shrieks lighting up the air.

The plunge into piercingly cold water shocked France, making him give a muffled yelp underwater. Freezing and almost numb, he pushed himself up above the waves, gasping for breath desperately. The water threw his body around like he was nothing, tossing him back and forth, drenching him, sucking him under. Flailing, France wildly scanned the waves for England, shouting his name. "England!? _Arthur!?_ "

" _Fran_ -" the gurgled cry caught France's attention, and he swam toward the figure, gripping his arm and pulling him close to his chest. Arthur gripped him and opened his mouth to cry out something, but the two were promptly sucked underwater, inhaling mouthfuls of liquid.

Kicking as hard as possible, Francis pulled them up above the surface, coughing and gasping for breath, hair plastered to his face. Eyes scanned the sides, the shoreline, but as hard as Francis kicked, the current pulled him just as strongly. He couldn't reach the edge. His wild gaze caught the dip of the water into none other than a waterfall, and he struggled, gritted _screaming_ between clenched teeth, trying to pull the drenched body in his arms to land.

It was no use, and with a terrified glance back at the waterfall, all France could do was grip England to him as they plummeted downward, bodies beginning to slip, free falling without control. France felt his head spin and his grip on England disappear, vision fading into black.

Everything after that was numb.

* * *

A lake of water shallow enough to touch the bottom lay at the bottom of the waterfall, banks muddy. France, gasping for air, broke the surface, throwing his head back as he panted and hacked up water. Finally he draped himself along the muddy bank, collapsing and uncaring as mud smeared his face, his hands, his shirt. He tried catching his breath, replaying fuzzy memories of moments ago-

Frantically, his eyes shot open and his head shot up, scanning for England.

His gaze fell upon the small figure huddled on the other side of the bank, chest heaving up and down. Francis bolted up, splashing unsteadily through the water to England's side, falling to his knees beside him. Fingers trailed through soaked blonde hair, pushing it away from Arthur's forehead, breaths coming quicker as he sought the gaze of his companion. Green eyes opened weakly. "Francis," England whispered with a small smile, relieved, reaching up to touch his face-

He dropped his hand and wailed out in sudden pain, arching his back, squeezing France's wrist. No longer on the adrenaline high, Arthur's eyes watered, rolling back- the sight of his delirious agony frightened France, who cupped both of his cheeks and cried out, "Look at me, _Ange._ Look at me."

Arthur focused his blurry gaze on Francis once more, wanting to pass out to relieve the pain. But France needed him, and he tried to be strong, gritting his teeth and biting his lip, unable to stop shaking.

"Arthur," Francis whispered, trembling fingers drifting down towards his chest, where dark, fresh blood stained his clothes and the shadowed mud beneath them. A choked sound fell from France's mouth, staring at three gunshot wounds: two buried in Arthur's gut and one right below his heart. "Oh, God, _Dieu,_ Arthur. You... you _imbecile,_ why would you-" his lower lip quivered dangerously, furious and heartbroken and terrified.

"I t-told you... I'd always... p-protect you," England breathed out painfully, brow scrunching, almost whimpering in delirium. Every breath meant more pain, but still he flashed a cheeky smile up at France.

He was so beautiful, and France had just _found_ him, and now France was going to loose him _._

He looked up to the grey, bleak sky, gripping his own dirty hair with angry, angry hands. He screamed furiously at whoever was up there, a long, drawn-out sound, because Francis found himself just as much in agony as did Arthur. The assassins were coming back. They'd find them, alone and wounded and defenseless at the bottom of a waterfall. Francis frantically tried to move Arthur, but the other cried out in anguish, " _Stop,_ it's... n-no use, p-princess. It's over."

"It's not," Francis snarled, but his words held no bite, fingers barely touching Arthur's cheeks. His dirty forehead touched Arthur's, who stared up at him blearily.

It was over. They had failed, and the Black Hand was going to find them.

Francis carefully maneuvered behind Arthur with shaky hands, laying his back against Francis's chest. Arthur's head rolled back onto Francis's shoulder, nose nuzzling into his neck, his blonde hair. They sat in defeat, in what was probably their last moment, because Arthur was going to bleed out and Francis was going to be captured.

Everything was quiet. They listened to each other breath, Arthur's eyes catching Francis's, trying to feel as close to him as possible.

"F-Fran?"

Francis angled his head down, pressing his nose to England's cheek and breathing in raggedly. "I'm here."

"I need you to... to bond with me, _n-now._ " He swallowed harshly. "We both know I'm not going to..." He trailed off, but despite Francis's choked protests, Arthur continued, "I trust... I trust you, and _only_ you."

France knew what he was doing, and he hated it. He loathed England for dying, for protecting him, for making him do this.

"Our countries will merge. The United Empire of France and Britain. You take care of my people, p-prat." England chuckled weakly, leaning heavily against France.

Chest swelling painfully, Francis buried his face in Arthur's hair, tears wetting his mussed scalp. " _Don't._ Don't you dare."

" _Please."_ Arthur's voice broke, breathing out. And to his despair, France couldn't deny him anything. All he'd ever wanted, once, was to have _England,_ the land. And now, when he was finally presented with it, he didn't want it. He despised it. He'd never want it again. In his desperation France found himself praying to God, _please, please, spare him, I'll never speak to him again if you wish, just don't let him die, please, please, I love him..._

England took France's hands and closed his eyes. A mysterious force circled between them, two countries vowing to unite as one: in effect as soon as the other died. Nothing would break the bond, not even their bosses. Only England himself now could break it, and both of them knew he wouldn't.

Hoofbeats sounded in the distance. Francis panicked, holding Arthur close, rocking him and crying, "No, no, _no_." Arthur gripped his arms, chest heaving painfully, a choked sob escaping his sore throat. They had been so close to safety and freedom. So close. And now it was over.

Rain started to fall from the dark, dull sky, fat drops that beat Francis over the head, like God reprimanding him, saying, _This is what you deserve._ The agents of the Black Hand finally approached, stopping their horses, glaring down at the pathetic scene with contempt. Francis glared hatefully back like a cornered alley cat, lips drawn back in a dangerous snarl, trying to protect Arthur, his rival, his best friend, the one he loved, his everything.

Pitilessly, they threw ropes around Francis, still on their horses as if he didn't deserve their feet to touch the ground, and they started to pull. With a sharp yelp, Francis was dragged away from Arthur, fighting back every step, a hand reaching out for Arthur as his boots slipped on the mud and sent him to the ground. They laughed, and as Francis strained against the ropes holding him, one muttered, "Leave the other. He isn't going to make it."

Arthur, flipped onto his stomach painfully, reached out for Francis, grabbing his face tenderly, desperately, and pressed their lips together. For a split second, Francis forgot everything. He kissed Arthur, chaste and desperate and raw emotion, feeling his lips capture Arthur's bottom lip gently, everything a first kiss should have been except in the wrong circumstances.

Reality slammed into him as ropes tugged him harshly backwards like an animal, and with desperate screams, Francis fought, fought until his hands were tied and bleeding, fought until Arthur, crouched on the ground, bleeding out, calling out for him with watery eyes, disappeared from view.

* * *

 _A/N time!_

 _This AU differs from most of the Hetalia fics I've written. If any of you have read my other canon-verse fics, you'll know that the nations are immortal, can not bond or merge their countries together, and are definitely NOT born asexual. Haha. I've wanted to try out some new Hetalia ideas though._


	9. Chapter 9

_"You and I, we'll always be together."_ _Gaulia walks along a stone wall, feet shuffling against rock, precariously balancing. Albion, walking on the ground beside him, frowns curiously._

 _"How do you know that?"_

 _"It's fate!" His eyes shine as they turn upon Albion. "It was no mere accident, our first meeting in the forest." Gaulia jumps off from the wall and lands in front of Albion, taking his hands. "You and I, we were meant for each other."_

* * *

 _1917, February 7_

Green eyes awoke to a white ceiling.

"Well then. The Great British Empire finally arises," a gruff voice sounded, vaguely familiar. Arthur sat up, slowly, tentatively, blinking and trying to adjust to the strange light. Everything was a jumbled mess inside his head, memories scattered.

The United States of America leant against the doorframe, lips in a straight line, eyes trained closely to England's face. Stiffening, Arthur instinctively felt for his pistol, but instead found the fabric of his hospital nightgown.

"What the hell happened?" He asked hoarsely, warily regarding the other as he approached. America said nothing, simply watched. He looked down at the floor, sat down at England's bedside, and finally stared England in the face with a heavy intake of breath.

"England, you've been asleep for three years."

It didn't really process, not yet. England stared back owlishly, emotions wildly fluctuating, torn between ripping the man in front of him into shreds or believing him-

 _France._

Everything came back, like a dam exploding, and Arthur sharply exhaled, eyes growing wide. In a frenzy, he leapt off the side of the bed, ripping the IV out of his arm, and made for the door. Alfred blocked his path, grabbing his shoulders, saying _something,_ but Arthur didn't care. Wildly he struggled in Alfred's grip, screaming and demanding for the younger to let him pass, and in his state of delirious rage backhanded America's face.

America stumbled back, but other personnel flooded through the door, restraining England and pushing him backwards. They couldn't get far with the nation kicking and screaming like a wounded child, not until the door swung open once again and Russia pushed his way through, grabbing Arthur's shoulders and shoving him against the wall.

"Get off of me!" England screeched, lashing out. Russia barely dodged his fist and tried pinning him to the wall, but the Empire was too much for one person to contain.

"A little help, please!" Russia snapped, America quickly coming to his aid. Together, they successfully restrained the thrashing nation, breathing out heavily as finally, England stilled, eyes dangerously glinting.

"Listen," America commanded, though his voice sounded uncertain. "France isn't dead, or else you would have absorbed his Republic. We know you bonded with him. We've been keeping a close eye on not only your vitals, but your politics, and nothing's changed drastically." He inhaled, weakly finishing, "But... France has been missing in action for the three years you've been comatose."

England's eyes bored into his, furious. "No one has searched? _No one_ has secured a lead on the Black Hand?"

"The Black Hand had nothing to do with France's kidnapping," Russia murmured quietly, his voice calm and almost soothing. "Nor your shooting."

"Then _who_?!" England snarled, teeth bared like a cornered animal. America winced, unable to maintain eye contact with the man whom he'd broken away from.

"Use your brain, England. The Black Hand's agenda was to frame you for the murder of the Archduke. Did you really believe they'd pursue you? Their job was done." Russia glanced back, waving the nurses out. Once the room was secure, he muttered, "Who did you run into before your car toppled off the bridge in Austria?"

"How do you _know_ all of this?!" England hissed. "Did you fucking _delve_ into my brain?!"

"Information gets around," America replied, voice hushed. "Spy networks hide everywhere. And once they know, we know."

England inhaled sharply, hesitating for a moment. "Prussia. France and I intercepted Prussia before our car got shot off the bridge."

"Then, we have two options to believe. One, Germany and Prussia have kidnapped France to further their prospects in the war. Or... a matrix of German agents have begun their own agenda," Russia said, violet eyes glinting. "To assassinate all personifications in order to secure domination."

" _Fuck,"_ America exhaled, as if the information were new to him. England's fingers gripped tight onto Russia's shoulders, eyes burning into the younger's. _So, we're scrambled. We know nothing of their plans, nor what's happened to Francis._

"The war," he asked, voice wavering. "Have we lost?"

"No, Arthur. We're still fighting."

"Where the hell are we?"

"A safe-house in France."

"What is _he_ doing here?" England growled, jaw clenching as he glared at America. America turned away, crossing his arms like the petulant child England thought he still was. Some wounds would never heal.

"He's here to help us," Russia explained, almost gently. His voice dropped to a whisper. "He's been by your side for months, monitoring everything-"

"I don't _need_ him, nor _anyone's_ help!" England shoved Russia backwards, causing him to stumble into America. However, he didn't advance, nor try to race out of the room. He instead gripped at his hair with angry, calloused hands, pacing the room back and forth in his hospital gown. " _Why?!"_ He demanded, green eyes focusing sharply on the two younger nations. "Why would you not wake me?!"

He sounded so desperate, so heartbroken, that it rendered America and Russia confused. "Why are _you_ reacting this way?" Ivan asked, taking an uncertain step forward. England paused in his reckless pacing, staring at the floor as it dawned on him.

 _Oh, God. They don't know. Nobody knows. Nations aren't supposed to fall in love. Of course they wouldn't know._

"You try going under for three years," England snapped, blaming his strange behavior on worrying about his country's politics. "I'm an Empire. I'm not a young nation who can galavant into the woods like the lot of you."

"You're 19," America pointed out snidely from the corner of the room. Russia glared at him, as if saying, _You're not helping!_

"And _you_ are barely 16," England said, staring coldly down his nose at America. "Hardly mature enough to enter the likes of war."

"At least _I_ don't take three year long _naps_."

Bristling, England and America stared each other down, eyes cold. A fight would have broken out if Russia hadn't walked in between them, snapping them out of their trance. "Fighting will get us nowhere, _мудак."_

"Russia's right. We must focus on tracking down this German intelligence and rescuing France," England tilted his head up. " _America,_ if you'd be so kind as to fetch me proper clothing?"

It was more of an order than a request, and everyone in the room knew it. But as much as America wanted to curl his bottom lip and snarl _no,_ he obeyed, storming out of the room. Russia turned to England, frowning. "You're not doing either of you any good."

"He's a foolish child." _He's my brother, and I loved him._

Russia's lips quirked up in a knowing smile. "When I was under France, during the Napoleonic era, France would say the same thing about you. About how childish you were, about how you couldn't resist his power for long. But you ended up victorious."

Scoffing, England turned his head. The words stung, but Russia couldn't know that. He readied to reply when strong feelings of nausea started to pulse up his throat, and dry-heaving, he almost fell to the floor.

"Arthur?!" Russia exclaimed, grabbing his shoulders and holding him up. England gasped for breath, fingers a death-grip on Russia's bicep, eyes wide with a sudden rush of _feeling,_ something he couldn't explain but _knew_ it was France.

A soft noise of distress tore from England's throat, gasping for breath as Russia steadied him.

" _France,"_ he whispered. "Where are you?"

* * *

"He's so pretty," a voice sneered. France growled low in his throat, a cornered animal in the dark, shackled to the wall. Lacerations scattered over his skin bled out onto the cold concrete beneath his legs. "Even when he's covered in bruises and blood."

Pain erupted below his shoulder blades, a knife glinting in the dark, trailing down his back. France hissed sharply, biting his lip and tilting his head back slightly, long greasy hair tangled in his face. Someone laughed, a deep, rasping sound. "Red is a nice colour on him."

His chin roughly was yanked up by calloused fingers. Blue eyes, still fiery and defiant, glared back at his captor's face, lips curling into a snarl. " _Va te faire foutre."_

The man's rough hand connected harshly with his face, the sharp slap echoing through the dark room. France's glare intensified, wound on his face bleeding, dripping down the bridge of his nose. He couldn't be broken now, and everyone knew that. He was bonded with England, which meant he'd borrow from England's strength when he started to grow weak, no matter how far apart they were.

Nonetheless, he prayed, _prayed_ that Arthur would break the bond. Francis was stealing strength from him. He couldn't help but take, and he knew that Arthur would do nothing but give him every ounce of strength he had.

* * *

 _"Hey!"_

 _Albion turns, taken aback when he sees Gaulia. His only friend has changed since they last met- he looks older, taller. "Have you grown, Gaulia?"_

 _Gaulia doesn't smile. His eyes dart away, as if he's searching, waiting for someone. Albion finally realizes that he's been running, out of breath and panting. "Are you alright?"_

 _"You need to get out of here," Gaulia breathes, grips him by the shoulders forcibly. Albion shrinks back, big green eyes confused. But Gaulia repeats, "You need to get out of here, now."_

 _"Why? We always play here! Look, I brought your favorite flower, see?" Albion holds out the plant, petals pretty and blue, like Gaulia's eyes._

 _Gaulia doesn't smile. Instead, he pushes Albion backwards and says, "You need to go, and never come back. Never!"_

 _Stung, Albion recoils, protesting, "B-but-"_

 _"I said leave!" Gaulia snarls, the words too grown-up to be the same boy. Albion takes off, running into the forest, trying to wipe away the childish wetness in his eyes. Something compels him to turn around._

 _Someone walks through the dense forest, gripping Gaulia's shoulder tightly. Through the leaves, Albion can see Gaulia flinch, voice wavering as he speaks, "Rome."_

 _Rome smiles. Albion is too young to realize that the look is not friendly, not friendly at all. It is lustful and evil and cruel, like the words he speaks next. But Albion doesn't hear, because he runs, runs back to his country, and he vows never to forgive Gaulia for replacing him. He doesn't know Gaulia was trying to protect him. He doesn't know that Gaulia is a slave to Rome's desires._

 _And he doesn't see Gaulia for a very, very long time._

* * *

 _"_ How did you find me?" England asked, breeze tossing his hair side to side.

Russia crossed his arms and tilted his head up. "Switzerland found you in the aftermath. He said you were dead. Liechtenstein thought so as well." Smiling, he clicked his tongue. "But I knew the British Empire wouldn't go down so easily. We assumed you'd bonded with France in a last ditch effort to save your country... incidentally saving yourself."

"How?"

"Not only do countries merge when they bond, but they also share each other's strength. When you were weak, you borrowed from France, and when France is weak, he'll borrow from you."

Sighing out, England gazed at the golden wheat blowing around them, a beautiful safe house in an dark, war-dominated country. "He's already been taking my strength. So, he's obviously..." He swallowed thickly. "Obviously being tortured."

"Intel would suggest," Russia murmured, eyes curious as they gazed at England. "Forgive me for intruding, Arthur. But you seem worried over someone you have always hated?"

England hesitated. Nations had never spoken of romance: it was an understood taboo, an undiscussed rule. It just _didn't exist_ between nations. But now, suddenly, it did, and between two very unlikely powers. Green eyes downcast, he finally responded, "He is my ally, is he not? I feel as much pity for him as I would America, or... or anyone."

Russia observed England's pained expressions and knew he was lying. Using discretion, he said nothing.

* * *

 _February 19th_

"So," America started, voice loud and seemingly confident in the meeting room. Everyone listened, because everyone _always_ listened to America, such a powerful, bright ray of light in dark times. The chalkboard behind him displayed messy scribbles of attack plans and bombing strategies and everything tactical. "We move on to the situation with France."

The British Empire raised his head, green eyes piercing as they connected with America's. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, America tore his gaze away from England's. "It's been almost four months since he's gone, but we know he's still... still alive." He hesitated. "As most of you already have heard, the British Empire bonded with the Republic of France in this time of strife. As long as they share power, France will be safe."

"But he can't survive like this," Canada, from beside England, spoke up. He pushed his wire-framed glasses up his nose. "As his allies, we need to _act._ "

Russia, one hand on the table and the other gesturing in the air, spoke, "We can't risk a covert operation behind enemy lines, not for a country that, quite frankly, is falling to shreds."

England saw the bags under his eyes, the way the young nation slouched in his seat. He remembered when France looked the same way after the Napoleonic Era due to radical shifts in power. England could summon no anger towards Russia. He was miserable, and with the beginnings of mutiny on his turf, Russia would probably drop out of the war soon.

"I propose we send in a special force, heavily undercover." America, pushing up his glasses, stared once more at England. "I also propose that no countries are deployed on this force, just as a precaution-"

"Oh, _fuck_ you," England snarled, driving his fist into the wood table. Everyone in the room flinched at the outburst. "You think you can control everything that happens in this _god-damned_ life?! You haven't even declared _war!"_

"At least I'm contributing to France's-"

"You have no right, _none_ whatsoever, to propose anything to us, not until you _join_ us for good, you _ungrateful_ son of a bitch!" Fuming, England glared down America, challenging him to disagree. Uncharacteristically wise of him, America sat down without another word.

Russia, finding humor in this hell-like conference room, gave a raspy chuckle. "And what would you suggest, England?"

"I do think an undercover force would be for the best," England sighed out, trying to calm himself. "But I _will_ lead that force, and anyone that dare challenge me will be sorry for it." The room remained silent for some moments until finally England murmured, "News of our group will be sent out by dawn. You all are dismissed."

Individuals shuffled out the doors, some nations gathering in small groups and chatting. Russia approached England with a sympathetic smile. "Asshole."

England glanced down at him, raised an eyebrow, and retorted, "Did I teach you that word?"

Completely ignoring the jibe, Russia said, "I want to be on the team."

"Think about what's best for your _people,_ Russia. Do they really need you gone at a time like this, when their government is about to crash?"

Russia, eyes downcast, looked away. England couldn't help but think, _We both know what will happen. If he leaves now... it is like committing suicide. His country will undoubtedly collapse... and so will he._

"You saved my life," Russia said, staring at England determinedly. "You basically saved all of Europe not a century ago, from the same man you now want to save. I will always have your back, that is unquestionable. But think, England. Is he worth it? Is this man's life important to you?"

No one remained in the gloomy conference room as England smiled. "This man's life is more important to me than my own, Russia."

"I thought you'd say something like that." Reaching into his overcoat, Russia pulled out a manilla file, handing it to England. "Intel confirms that this pursuing and kidnapping of France is work of a loner Prussian group. Their agenda is eradication of the personifications, just as we suspected."

England opened the file: inside were various pictures, documents, and top-secret telegrams. Shooting Russia a fond smile, he gestured to the door.

"Let us go find our ally, shall we?"


	10. Chapter 10

" _Ah, moshi moshi_?"

"Japan. I need your help."

" _Asa,_ you only ever call me when you need help."

Chuckling, Arthur paced the floor of his empty, dark house. This was his last and most important call. "That is true. Care to join me on a high-risk, deep undercover mission?"

"Hmm. Perhaps. Who have you recruited?"

"Russia, Canada, hopefully you..." he swallowed distastefully. "And the United States."

Japan huffed over the phone, "I have heard about France. I will aid you in his recovery..."

"But?"

"You make _sure_ I keep Shantung Peninsula."

Arthur smiled, leaning against the counter. It would be victory for him after all. "Your wish is my command, darling."

* * *

 _July 25_

Russia restlessly paced the meeting room as he spoke, instructing the elite force England had picked for France's rescue. Never having cared much for what he coined "public speaking," Arthur let Ivan do the work. He listened to Ivan's words but did not process them, instead lost in his own mind as he stared out the window.

The country of France was beautiful this time of year, especially Calais. Fanciful thoughts floated through England's mind, that of a reunion with France and the relief he'd experience once the man was safe. _It should be easy,_ England thought, rubbing his forehead. A sudden splitting headache made him wince, closing his eyes. Nowadays sudden pain he was used to. It was the consequence of bonding with another country.

Naively, England forced himself to believe France was just in solitary confinement, that he was not being tortured. He pushed all of his doubts into a corner and locked them up. France was fine.

"... and we think France has been deported to an intelligence agency in Berlin," Russia continued, the words filtering into England's mind and drawing his attention. "We'll deploy two teams. Black One will be led by England and consists of America and Japan."

England held back a smug expression, watching as a frustrated, petulant America shifted in his seat. Russia kept talking, and England tried to tune back in. "I will lead Black Two, consisting of Canada and I-"

The conference door swung open, ripping away everyone's attention. " _And_ me," the newcomer said, heavy accent unmistakable. England, letting out a huff of dry amusement, murmured, "China."

China, in his grey military uniform, strode in with his head held high. Japan bristled in his seat beside England, hissing, "What the hell are you doing here? Aren't you with the central powers?"

"Was I committed to them?" China snapped back, coming to stand at Russia's side. "You know the answer to that, _báichī._ "

"Get out," Japan growled, fists slamming against the table as he stood. China made to attack, but Russia stepped between the two, eyes narrowed at Japan. In England's view, he didn't help much: he sided easily with China. _As expected, it's always my duty to clean up the mess. Assholes._

"Stop this nonsense, _now._ " England commanded, standing from his seat with an air of superiority that made everyone want to do what he asked. "We are here to rescue France, and whilst you bicker amongst yourselves, he rots in a prison cell!" Striding to the front of the room, England gestured to the map on the blackboard. "Our intel provides possible and probable locations that our rogue Prussian group may be in. I suggest we start in the mountainous regions of Berlin and we start _now._ Thanks to our newest addition-" England glared at China- "We can split into three teams."

"I'll take Canada," America quickly called.

" _Russia_ will partner with Canada," England corrected, not bothering to look America in the eye. "And China will partner with Japan."

" _What_?! No!" Both Japan and America shouted (more like whined).

Thankfully, Russia broke in this time to aid England. "Your partner is intended to be your opposite," he explained calmly. "For example, I am the strength and Canada is the escape-artist on our team."

"Why can't Canada be the escape-artist to _my_ strength?" America stubbornly argued.

"I prefer the term Houdini," Canada chimed in.

Russia rubbed his face, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "But the point is, you balance the other out."

America crossed his arms. "I don't see how England and I balance each other out. He's strong, I'm strong-"

"You are half-witted whereas _I_ am brilliant," England pointed out smugly.

Before a heated argument could begin, Russia interrupted, "The three teams will also serve as a three-pronged attack on the building we intend to sabotage." He motioned to England. "Care to explain?"

"Thank you." Gesturing to the map, England started, "Our best undercover informant, stationed in Germany, tipped us off a couple days ago. A rogue Prussian group is assumed to be living in this stronghold. In it, certain spies of ours have seen various undercover agents taken. Russia and I have studied the building, and it has several weaknesses that ultimately make it a vulnerable infrastructure."

England strode over and set the map in the middle of the table so that everyone could see the attack plan up close. "America and I will take the south mountain range, facing the front of the building. Russia and Canada will be directly north, just behind the stronghold. Japan and China will take the east side. If America and I can sneak past the delivery gate when it opens, I can override the security structure..."

"Allowing the rest of us to break in," Russia continued. "From there, America and England will break off to find France. The rest of us will set detonators around the building to erase evidence of us ever being there."

Silence fell amongst the group. America and Canada glanced at each other before America spoke up, "So, we're going to kill unarmed, unsuspecting people?"

"These people abducted Francis," England bitterly snapped, taking everyone off guard. "They plan to take all of us out, one by one. Don't you understand? If we don't kill them first, they'll kill us."

The countries remained quiet. Russia folded his arms and leant forward against the table. "Whoever does not want part of this is welcome to leave now."

No one spoke. England let out a relieved breath and flexed his fingers against his palm, standing up once more. "I'm glad we all agree, then. We'll convene here at 05:00, bright and early tomorrow. We'll rendezvous with a train as soon as possible. And a quick reminder-" He shot a pointed look at America, who was trying to sneak out the door- "That we are in deep shadow conditions. _No one_ outside of this recovery group should know a word about this. I'd advise you keep your trap shut unless you want my wrath incurred upon you."

No one argued save for the hushed grumbles of America as he walked out.

* * *

 _July 26_

A train horn blew as it slowly started to roll out of the station in the dead of night. England gazed out the window of the train as they departed from France, headed for the dangerous Germany. The other nations in the train with him slept, but England found himself restless. Occasionally light would pass by the window, illuminating his face briefly. His cheek slumped against his palm as he thought, cloudy eyes closing out of stress. A vivid memory appeared out of nowhere, a memory that had been buried deep for centuries.

 _"Gaulia?"_

 _Turning, Gaulia faces Albion. He smiles sleepily. "Yes?"_

 _Albion doesn't understand why he feels the need to say these words- he doesn't even know what they mean. He has only know Gaulia for three months, and his language is a mangled, hard thing to understand. Still, he curls up close to Gaulia and throws a leg around his waist so they are pressed flush together, sharing body heat in the cold forrest they live in._

 _"I really love you."_

 _Gaulia giggles and buries his face into Albion's neck. They are both too young to be living in a tree, all alone in an empty forrest: too innocent to realize they are not the only countries that exist in this world. But Albion knows the faeries led him to Gaulia for a reason. He is certain that the words he has spoken are the reason. Love is what drives the forces of this earth. It is what shapes it._

 _"Albion?"_

 _"What?"_

 _"I love you, too."_

England softly laughed, and his lower lip quivered dangerously.

* * *

 _July 28th_

In the wee hours of morning, England's team gathered, preparing for their first attack near Berlin. Tracking down the building that intel provided coordinates for had been easy. Smack-dab in the middle of a mountain range right outside Berlin, the building had been hidden quite conveniently: now all that remained was a successful infiltration and rescue. They wore black long-sleeved shirts and black bullet-proof vests, blending in with the night itself. Determined, England breathed in deeply, and felt France- who was still connected to him- do the same.

England could feel France when he slept, could see him in his dreams. It was as if they were tied at separate ends of a rope: they couldn't physically touch each other, but they could _feel_ the other's presence.

"You're staring off into space," came a gravelly voice beside England's ear. Turning, England faced America, blue eyes carefully neutral. _Just the way I taught him to deal with other nations. Maybe he did learn something from our days together._

"Did you need something?" The pointed politeness almost made America cringe, but England convinced himself that he didn't care. "Or do you only exist to annoy me?"

"Other people, maybe, but not you." America couldn't hold a passive stance for long: unbridled passion was perhaps his greatest weakness in being a country. "The world does _not_ revolve around you."

"Seeing as how I _own_ half the world, I'd say it does, in fact, revolve around me." England snidely bit back, not bothering to look his brother in the eye. America started to walk away, to England's relief, but then hesitated.

" _My_ world does not revolve around you, Arthur."

Bristling, England turned around, ready to smack the impudent bastard for using his human name, but America was already walking away, studying the building beneath them. Shaking off the irritating encounter (which hurt more than he even realized), England adjusted his mic, muttering, "Testing. Russia, can you hear me?"

The voice of Russia- on a mountain range with Canada behind the building- came fading in. "I thought we were using codenames, yes?"

"We haven't the time for-"

America interrupted him, voice almost giddy as he chimed in, "I vote that England's codename be highfalutin motherfu-"

"Stop _right_ there, you godforsaken spawn of sa-"

"Will you two shut up?!" China hissed. "We have a small window of opportunity that will close soon if we sit around here and argue all day!"

England turned, glared at America, and replied, "China is right. You need to act _mature,_ America."

"Oh, shut your f-"

"Um, people?" Canada's voice piped up. "Small window of opportunity is going. . ."

England lifted his binoculars, studying the building. The gates were opening to accept a delivery. He turned to America and spoke, "That's our cue." America stiffly nodded, and both pulled out their detonators. Creeping closer to the gate, the two readied to throw their explosions at the gate.

 _Three, two.._ England mouthed.

With a sharp whizz, the explosives flew through the air and attached to the gate. Guards nearby shouted in confusion as the gate suddenly exploded into a ball of smoke and flames. "Go!" America shouted, and the two sprinted past the flaming gate and into the facility. Unluckily, guards spotted them and started to fire. Gunshots echoed throughout the place, England and America diving for cover behind a wall.

America readily fired back, shouting expletives and ducking quickly for cover again. England scanned the walls, searching for the security system. His eyes fell upon the thing, on the opposite wall: out in the open. If England even tried to run to it, he'd be a sitting duck. A sitting duck filled with bullets, for that matter.

"Have you disabled the security system?" Russia asked over the mic.

"Hold your horses," America snapped, glancing at England. "The bastards are firing at us."

"Who would have thought?" Canada snidely remarked, voice fading in and out with static. England tried to focus on his mission instead of being slightly proud that Canada had, in fact, inherited something from him and _not_ France.

America gritted his teeth and fired at the guards once more. "Are you going to do something or not?!" He shouted at England.

"Excuse me?" England hissed shrilly. "Do _you_ have any brilliant plans, stupid b-"

Pushing him roughly aside, America flung something at the adjacent wall in anger. About to bite America's head off and beat him to a pulp, England sat up, only to realize that America's eyes were wide with what could only be described as: "Oops."

The entire wall exploded, sending everyone in the room crashing backwards. Coughing, England tried pushing himself up, only to be pinned down by America, having landed on him in the force of the blast. Blue eyes bored into his, shocked: England groaned and let his head fall back. "Will you stop gawking and get _off_ me?"

"I'm not _gawking,_ " America argued, but pushed himself up off England. England sat up and rubbed his head irritably, getting to his feet. Blood stained his gloves, and England sighed out.

"The mainframe is down," he reported over the mic. "In a rather unorthodox way, but I _suppose_ it worked."

Canada's voice faded in. "You two go find France. We'll rig the place."

"10-4, Houdini," America replied, smirking. England rolled his eyes, the two racing down the hallways together. They skirted a wall, ran into some guards, shot them down, and continued running.

"How many bloody hallways _are_ there?!" England growled, heartbeat starting to increase as he worried. America glanced over at him, but (for once in his life) had nothing to say. One could sense the nervousness England's persona emitted in waves.

"You've been at this for ten minutes," China piped up, voice static. "We're running out of time!"

"Just hold on!" England snarled. "We're close, I feel it. Just-"

England and America suddenly were sent flying backwards, tumbling to the ground roughly. Grunting at the harsh impact, England pushed himself up, eyes flickering. Holding his wounded side, he pulled out his gun and stood, facing the newcomer that blocked his path. The figure was dressed in black and wore a mask, covering his nose and mouth: his blonde, greasy long hair was matted and tied back.

England hesitated. Something was... off. He hadn't the time to think as the man hurled something towards him, and seemingly paralyzed, England couldn't move. America skidded to a halt in front of him, and the second the small rope attached to his forearm, the coils rippled with electricity. America cried out as he was electrocuted, falling to the ground in a limp heap.

Gritting his teeth in fury, England leapt over America's body and towards the mysterious figure, firing multiple shots at him. The man dodged and rolled to the ground, leaping to his feet and pulling out his own gun. A bullet scraped England's thigh, making him wince: grunting, England closed in on him and kicked away the gun from his hands.

His own gun tumbled out of his hands as the man dealt a swift and effective punch to his jaw, sending England stumbling back in shock. He sent his foot flying into the figure's gut, making him grunt and hit the wall behind him. Flipping his hair, England breathed out and raised his fists, ready for combat.

Swift punches and kicks were dealt on both sides. The man, incredibly flexible, side flipped, avoiding England's fist and catching his arm. Before he could snap his arm, England pulled out his pocket knife and dug it into the other's shoulder.

Blue eyes flashing with some frightening look, the man stumbled, grip on England loosening. Taking advantage of the sudden hesitation, England flipped, sending the heel of his foot into other's face. He stumbled backwards, mask falling off as he flipped, neatly landing on his feet and turning towards England.

Arthur's heart stopped.

"Francis?"

It was him. He was finally here. He was... _alive,_ and Arthur took a step forward to touch him, to feel his skin- only for Francis to step back warily. Breathing in sharply, Arthur's mouth turned dry, his head spinning in confusion. _What the hell is wrong with him? "_ Don't you... don't you remember me?"

Only then did Arthur suddenly realize how awful he looked, rings under his eyes, black soot covering his face, strands of greasy hair hanging in his eyes. Something was wrong. France wasn't running to him in joy. France had tried to _attack_ him.

Dark eyes stared England down, no flicker of recognition visible. Francis replied in his native tongue, voice gravelly from disuse.

"Who the hell are you?"


End file.
